The tougher the form the easier it is for me to handle the poem, because the form gives permission to be very gut honest about feelings.

Here on the drawing board fingers and noses leak from the air brush maggots lie under if i should die before if i should die in the back room stacked up in smooth boxes like soapflakes or tunafish wait the undreamt of.

I'm going home the old way with a light hand on the reins making the long approach.

Love, we are a small pond.

To build is to dwell.

Meanwhile let us cast one shadow in air and water.

We are, each of us, our own prisoner. We are locked up in our own story.