You shall not do as the witches do,
The pages of the book instructed;
As if it were the only bible, real
To which my living soul entrust'd.
...
Poetry's my armament and muse;
I wield her- both amusing and profuse.
She keeps the bore many lengths away,
As he's confused by her- too much to say.
...
Up above, there's a moon
cleaves to earth,
like a lover;
A shiny new orb there
...
Nine times at least, I groveled for your friendship;
Nine times nine more, I forgave all your spite;
Nine hundred now, cannot begin to tell you,
Of times your words, in me did truly fight.
...
My heart is heavy because
Someday you'll go away
Who will listen to my dreams then
Who will care, whatever I say?
...
It rains on the street,
Like a god weeping slow
Tears on the hapless
People below.
...
What talks to itself,
All day, all night?
What talks without words
From dawn’s first light?
...
My brain is full of paisleys,
My skin has polka dots,
My eyes are crystal mirrors
My palms, ink blots.
...
My dad knew auction language;
He had the city-stutter,
He counted out the increments,
His syllables like butter.
...
Are there ghostly feet still on the treadles
Of old sewing machines, or ghostly hands
Still setting down the Victrola's needle?
...