Sorrow Is Easier Than Guilt.

I Am In My Own Mind. I Am Locked In The Wrong House.

Being Kissed On The Back Of The Knee Is A Moth At The Windowscreen.

Bless All Useful Objects, The Spoons Made Of Bone, The Mattress I Cook My Dreams Upon, The Typewriter That Is My Church With An Altar Of Keys Always Waiting.

I Tell It Stories Now And Then And Feed It Images Like Honey. I Will Not Speculate Today With Poems That Think They're Money.

No Matter Whose Bed You Die In The Bed Will Be Yours For Your Voyage Onto The Surgical Andiron Of God.