Some ghosts are women, neither abstract nor pale, their breasts as limp as killed fi… Not witches, but ghosts who come, moving their useless arm…

Sleeping in fever, I am unfair to know just who you are: hung up like a pig on exhibit, the delicate wrists, the beard drooling blood and vineg…

Linda, you are leaving your old body now, It lies flat, an old butterfly, all arm, all leg, all wing, loose as an old dress.

It was only important to smile and hold still, to lie down beside him and to rest awhile, to be folded up together

My business is words. Words are l… or coins, or better, like swarming… I confess I am only broken by the… as if words were counted like dead… unbuckled from their yellow eyes a…

‘Do you like me?’ I asked the blue blazer. No answer. Silence bounced out of his books. Silence fell off his tongue

Under my bowels, yellow with smoke… it waits. Under my eyes, those milk bunnies, it waits. It is waiting.

If you danced from midnight to six A.M. who would understand? The runaway boy who chucks it all to live on the Boston Common

You lay in the nest of your real d… Beyond the print of my nervous fin… Where they touched your moving hea… Your old skin puckering, your lung… Grown baby short as you looked up…

Angel of fire and genitals, do you… that green mama who first forced m… who put me first in the latrine, t… of brown where I was beggar and sh… I said, ‘The devil is down that f…

If I could blame it all on the we… the snow like the cadaver’s table, the trees turned into knitting nee… the ground as hard as a frozen had… the pond wearing its mustache of f…

Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on… all pea—green scarfs and spine pol… I think…