The good poet sticks to his real loves, those within the realm of possibility. He never tries to hold hands with God or the human race.
But with exquisite breathing you smile, with satisfaction of love, And I touch you again as you tick in the silence and settle in sleep.
To make the child in your own image is a capital crime, for your image is not worth repeating. The child knows this and you know it. Consequently you hate each other.
My soul is now her day, my day her night, So I lie down, and so I rise.
The doctor punched my vein, the captain called me Cain, upon my belly sat the sow of fear.