The Soul Was Not Cured, It Was

Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters They Want To Know Which Tools. They Never Ask Why Build.

Now, In My Middle Age, About Nineteen In The Head I'd Say, I Am Rowing, I Am Rowing.

I Would Like To Bury All The Hating Eyes Under The Sand Somewhere.

I Am A Collection Of Dismantled Almosts.

The Fish Are Naked. The Fish Are Always Awake. They Are The Color Of Old Spoons And Caramels.