Is It Poetry (1958 - / Bus-Boys And Poets, Washington D.C.)

This fear of thoughts each loud dull clang each noisy ring.
My beast my burden which to some where are of those.
It died.

At least, the life of it was rich some times white bones.

The laughter of the backward talking silly donkey.

She kept it fed and paid the vet in small marked bills.
Rapt attention to it's days long nights when morn it's passing.
Independent when it came less than most but when it left.
It fit into the box my boots she sometimes never wears.

Distressed but not depressed,
I sit in front of the radio, listening to tomorrows game.
The electric is cut off brown the bottles full.

The wind visits through I close the door, the window is.
Like the door relative to the window which sticks open.
So slowly I reach out to her,
but her proper rearing shows the front, behind the rear.

Growing more each passing day, which laughs inside my mind.
Dead in sleep then it only dies again of fear, I live.
So of fear I die and my only confabulation of this fear.
Is the neighbors dog which stands in fear behind the fence.
Through the window silent thoughts I think of it as once a person.