My Death From The Wrists,

My Faith Is A Great Weight Hung On A Small Wire, As Doth The Spider Hang Her Baby On A Thin Web.

God Has A Brown Voice, As Soft And Full As Beer.

There Is Rust In My Mouth,the Stain Of An Old Kiss.

I Tell It Stories Now And Then And Feed It Images Like Honey. I Will Not Speculate Today With Poems That Think They're Money.

Being Sixteen In The Pants I Died Full Of Questions