The first wife floats in memory calmlywho formerly was storm-tossed, who gaveat the edges a whitewash to those rocks
of myself, begging your pardon, as a young man,quick to draw arms, quickto take a fence for daggers toward myheart,
I give the black pit dream’s head,not fearing to hit bottom, to the waterI offer my head like a stone,
The death of the father is my shepherd,me maketh me three versions of wanting.
This dice-white Princess desk phoneIs a ghost, wearing a small bellAbout its throat.
Tenderest pendulum, Your slender stem is Tremulous as it enters The minute’s fundamental;
As the scroll unrolls, scalesRipple by the glass like fishesFlashing gaseous tails,
Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,That wide wet kisser weSmacked on to justify a pipe.
I am a field.I am a blade of grassWithin the field.