The Saints Come, As Human As A

O Yellow Eye, Let Me Be Sick With Your Heat, Let Me Be Feverish And Frowning.

Our Checks Are Pale. Our Wallets Are Invalids. Past Due, Past Due, Is What Our Bills Are Saying And Yet We Kiss In Every Corner, Scuffing The Dust And The Cat. Love Rises Like Bread As We Go Bust.

The Body Is A Damn Hard Thing To Kill.

Someone Is Dead. Even The Trees Know It, Those Poor Old Dancers Who Come On Lewdly, All Pea-green Scarfs And Spine Pole.

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