A Ring Of Gold With The Sun

For Me, Poetry Is An Evasion Of The Real Job Of Writing Prose.

The Sky Leans On Me, Me, The One Upright Among All Horizontals.

Oh What A Poet I Will Flay Myself Into.

I Wanted Change And Excitement And To Shoot Off In All Directions Myself, Like The Colored Arrows From A Fourth Of July Rocket.

They Had To Call And Call And Pick The Worms Off Me Like Sticky Pearls.