To Be Without God Is To Be

In A Dream You Are Never Eighty.

There Is Joy In All: In The Hair I Brush Each Morning, In The Cannon Towel, Newly Washed, That I Rub My Body With Each Morning.

O Starry Night, This Is How I Want To Die

Thumbs Grow Into My Throat. I Wear Slaps Like A Spot Of Rouge.

It Is A Dead Heart. It Is Inside Of Me. It Is A Stranger Yet Once It Was Agreeable, Opening And Closing Like A Clam.