At Six I Lived In

You Cutting The Lawn, Fixing The Machines, All This Leprous Day And Then More Vodka, More Soda And The Pond Forgiving Our Bodies, The Pond Sucking Out The Throb.

My Death From The Wrists, Two Name Tags, Blood Worn Like A Corsage To Bloom One On The Left And One On The Right.

Inside Many Of Us Is A Small Old Man Who Wants To Get Out.

No Matter Whose Bed You Die In The Bed Will Be Yours For Your Voyage Onto The Surgical Andiron Of God.

Only My Books Anoint Me, And A Few Friends, Those Who Reach Into My Veins.