this green dream,
of which i think too much,
marked of dint and lurid scar
whose cloven cheek
is comely seamed:

bares the hurt of boyish touch
where felt too full the words they speak,
now lies in frost–winter ajar.

but if could i
return to shoots
the forest where in snow is kept

your ice'n heart, my heat accept,
i'twould not despair to die:

But–

alas,

"pity is praised as the virtue of prostitutes."

the nothing moment
where of a once beautiful
woman in a dark room
with her husband only
sits painfully

and says, "I forgot to take my medication today."

Ram Das
wrote the book
years ago
and then some.

What train am I sweating to catch?

dying is that a little girl x63
going into dust as from which
came her just sixty three years
ago not loved once within
them or met with the kind
smile of anyone but her old
little cat that just as her within
became as into dust like
(From which they were breathed)
that 63 years ago pile of used to be

don't choose parts of me to love

I'm
hanging on
to tomorrow.

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                                                "Did you **** him?"
































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