The Heart, This Child Of Myself That

Death's In The Good-bye.

Depression Is Boring, I Think And I Would Do Better To Make Some Soup And Light Up The Cave.

I Remember The Stink Of The Liverwurst. How I Was Put On A Platter And Laid Between The Mayonnaise And The Bacon. The Rhythm Of The Refrigerator Had Been Disturbed.

Our Children Tremble In Their Teen-age Cribs, Whirling Off On A Thumb Or A Motorcycle.

And What Of The Dead? They Lie Without Shoes In The Stone Boats. They Are More Like Stone Than The Sea Would Be If It Stopped. They Refuse To Be Blessed, Throat, Eye And Knucklebone.