I'm Sorry, But I Was

I'm Trying To Climb Up Both Walls At Once.

I Defer To All These Other American Poets Who, For Some Reason, I Both Envy And Admire.

Dead, Hung Up Indoors, The Kingfisher Will Not Indicate A Favoring Wind, Or Avert The Thunderbolt.

The Poem, For Me, Is Simply The First Sound Realized In The Modality Of Being.

I'm Sorry, But I Was Born With A Towel On My Head.