Poetry

I give the black pit dream’s head,
not fearing to hit bottom, to the water
I offer my head like a stone,

The death of the father is my shepherd,
me maketh me three versions of wanting.

We have known such joy as a child knows.
My sons, in whom everything rests,
know that there were those who were deeply
in love, 

As the scroll unrolls, scales
Ripple by the glass like fishes
Flashing gaseous tails,

Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,
That wide wet kisser we
Smacked on to justify a pipe.

I am a field.
I am a blade of grass
Within the field.

“My mother lit me (father was her match)
And set me in a draught to catch my breath.

If there are churches
This is where a church might be,
A theatre if there are theatres, or
A store.