Keelhaul the poets in the vestry chairs.

My soul is now her day, my day her night, So I lie down, and so I rise.

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.

Already old, the question Who shall die? Becomes unspoken Who is innocent?

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.

Poetry is innocent, not wise. It does not learn from experience, because each poetic experience is unique.

The body, what is it, Father, but a sign To love the force that grows us, to give back What in Thy palm is senselessness and mud?