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

Swollen, moist they are bloated.
Some even move from the last.
Wetting of the green broad leaves.
Every night I come home and I pea.
In the same way.
Shaking in hands on my knees.
His the swine his is massive,
even recounting seven you are having.
The snow at first and I glanced.
Up to my knees,
out of reach of my closer pocket.
Pearls being squeezed,
of all their green by the swine.
Ripe the oysters all clustered, weeping.
One is bitter and placed far beyond,
eight less than nine for the having.
What you have learned.
The other just popped in his mouth.
Pink now drips out from both sides.