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.
“My mother lit me (father was her match)And set me in a draught to catch my breath.
If there are churchesThis is where a church might be,A theatre if there are theatres, orA store.
Wingbones shattered—feathersScattered over the continent—The four unbroken animal limbs beatingA shadow-wind to keep aloft:
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,
For many people today the CIA is a three-letter symbol for practices reviled with four-letter words. In deed, in some circles, writing about the Central Intelligence Agency has become an exercise in political pornography: the subject...
