My Mouth Blooms Like A Cut.

Let There Be A Heaven So That Man May Outlive His Grasses.

I Burn The Way Money Burns.

Poems Aren't Postcards To Send Home.

... And My Love Stays Bitterly Glowing, Spasms Of It Will Not Sleep, And I Am Helpless And Thirsty And Need Shade But There Is No One To Cover Me- Not Even God.

I Have Forgiven All The Old Actors For Dying. A New One Comes On With The Same Lines, Like Large White Growths, In His Mouth. The Dancers Come On From The Wings, Perfectly Mated.