A hand’s turn or two.
A hand’s turn or two
and my work is done for the day.

~

Behold my suit of meats
and fat tarantulas. Check out my cloak of knives
and pinkest heliums.

~

Our lilies are broken by the wind.
Broken by the wind, and then they rust.
Broken by the wind, and then they rot.

~

A habit I seem to have formed (and can’t afford):
each morning at eleven, a latte at the same place,
at the same table, my own inviolable spot
downwind of the non-smokers.

Coffee. What a racket. I must be nuts.
But I’m making an attempt to live, you see;
I’m conducting an experiment in living.