Not That It Was Beautiful,

I Said, The Poets Are There I Hear Them Singing And Lying Around Their Round Table And Around Me Still.

The Man Inside Of Woman Ties A Knot So That They Will Never Again Be Separate.

Blind With Love, My Daughter Has Cried Nightly For Horses, Those Long-necked Marchers And Churners That She Has Mastered, Any And All, Reigning Them In Like A Circus Hand.

Take Your Foot Out Of The Graveyard, They Are Busy Being Dead.

Though Rain Curses The Window Let The Poem Be Made.