If The Doctors Cure Then

Stop The Darkness And Its Amputations And Find The Real Mccoy In The Private Holiness Of My Hands.

The Heart, This Child Of Myself That Resides In The Flesh, This Ultimate Signature Of The Me, The Start Of My Blindness And Sleep, Builds A Death Crèche.

[i] Have Fantasies Of Killing Myself And Thus Being The Powerful One Not The Powerless One.

The Grass As Bristly And Stout As Chives And Me Wondering When The Ground Will Break And Me Wondering How Anything Fragile Survives

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.