The Tongue, The Chinese Say, Is Like

The Ground Has On Its Clothes. The Trees Poke Out Of Sheets And Each Branch Wears The Sock Of God.

I Am A Collection Of Dismantled Almosts.

Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm Borrowed. Now I'm Numb.

Poetry Is My Life, My Postmark, My Hands, My Kitchen, My Face.

I Find Now, Swallowing One Teaspoon Of Pain, That It Drops Downward To The Past Where It Mixes With Last Year’s Cupful And Downward Into A Decade’s Quart And Downward Into A Lifetime’s Ocean. I Alternate Treading Water And Deadman’s Float.