What is this bizarre collection of titles
(quasi-porno side by side with classics)

Forget the way the flesh beneath the rind
waits with moistened lips for the hovering spoon,
smiling, yielding up each perfect round;

I am singing of something loose in your blood
where it roves without homecoming, never turns back,

I’m the family Augustine. Beth trusts
Your Plato talk. Give her your confessions
About the undergraduates you do.

He’d been through too much for this,
the guilt that frets forgetfulness.

You are there, I am here and the plagiarists
are in the libraries, where they belong.

Let them be square as boxes,
more square than milk cartons.

you are a broken pane,
or else a bent spoon.

Hydrant spilling
Its chipped, heavy mouth

On the long brick walls, human names:
Even the roofs were signed: