Everything.

Hell

    Hell

Hell

    Hell

Fortune and Hell. Della Robbia blue

And a room. Love, nude gods, gospel music means nothing

To you. I can see the black place where the torch

Started its work:

You go in, okay, and you tell them everything.

Asemic ballad.

It isn’t writing, and it isn’t rewriting. 

It’s the cogent way you couldn’t state your own comvictions.

You’re up to your knees. And

You ain’t gettin’ any taller.

This afternoon I reread Bret Harte’s ‘The Outcasts 

Of Poker Flat’. And I couldn’t bring myself

To think of anyone but me.

The catastrophe.

How did we meet, you and me?

Did a tornado force us beneath the surface where

We had no other choice?

Or was it in clean air when you said your clean name

And my dirty hand caught it.

Blue wilderness bends—it withers

But I’ve never been up.