I Hoard Books. They Are

No One To Hate Except The Slim Fish Of Memory That Slides In And Out Of My Brain.

My Objects Dream And Wear New Costumes, Compelled To, It Seems, By All The Words In My Hands And The Sea That Bangs In My Throat.

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

Being Kissed On The Back Of The Knee Is A Moth At The Windowscreen.

Take A Woman Talking, Purging Herself With Rhymes, Drumming Words Out Like A Typewriter, Planting Words In You Like Grass Seed. You'll Move Off.