Well, One Gets Out Of Bed And

Yes, I Know. Death Sits With His Key In My Lock. Not One Day Is Taken For Granted. Even Nursery Rhymes Have Put Me In Hock.

I Was Spread Out Dailyand Examined For Flaws.

With This Pen I Take In Hand My Selves And With These Dead Disciples I Will Grapple. Though Rain Curses The Window Let The Poem Be Made.

When I'm Writing, I Know I'm Doing The Thing I Was Born To Do.

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