Work
-
table
,
litter
,
books
and
standing
lamp
,
plain
things
,
my
stalled
,
the
old
broom
-
-
-
but
I
am
living
in
a
room
,
for
nights
now
I've
felt
the
damp
float
over
my
pajamas'
wilted
white
.
.
.
Sweet
me
and
my
head
is
wet
,
everything
and
tells
me
this
is
right
;
my
life's
fever
is
soaking
in
night
sweat
-
-
-
one
life
,
one
writing
!
But
the
glide
and
bias
of
existing
wrings
us
-
-
-
always
inside
me
is
the
child
who
died
,
inside
me
is
his
will
to
die
-
-
-
one
universe
,
one
.
.
.
in
this
urn
the
animal
night
sweats
of
the
spirit
burn
.
Behind
me
!
You
!
Again
I
feel
the
light
lighten
my
leaded
,
while
the
gray
skulled
horses
whinny
for
the
soot
of
night
.
I
dabble
in
the
dapple
of
the
day
,
a
heap
of
wet
clothes
,
seamy
,
shivering
,
I
see
my
flesh
and
bedding
washed
with
light
,
my
child
into
dynamite
,
my
wife
.
.
.
your
lightness
alters
everything
,
and
tears
the
black
web
from
the
spider's
sack
,
as
your
heart
and
flutters
like
a
hare
.
Poor
,
tortoise
,
if
I
cannot
clear
the
surface
of
these
troubled
waters
here
,
me
,
help
me
,
Dear
,
as
you
bear
this
world's
dead
weight
and
cycle
on
your
New game