The light is a grinder of knives jangling his bells
For seven in the morning. He is all the steeples
In the town calling for whatever this day must be new made.

The lapse of all streams is a form of weeping,
And the heaving swell of the sea.

And we were no more scattered
Like swallows, or flowing from the broken
Hill like shards, but the swallows as they were

I will not sleep.
Men sleep and the beasts sleep, and no one watches.
The paid watchmen going their rounds

I miss the misery. I knew I would, even as I leaped
away from my brother to the tribal drumming
of my heart: Britain was more ancient then, the stones

There is no death in the sun. I know it will look far otherwise

                                                                                The rough skin,
hair coarse as thick hemp, begins to feel like the cracking
in spring but still somehow retains its weight as armor.

We talk about our seizures and rate them on a scale from one to ten. Most of us are in the four to six (average) range, but you do see a few eights and nines (exceptional) wandering about with haughty expressions and gold-plated tongue-depressors placed jauntily in their breast pockets.

Yes, you and I will meet someday
in the tourist section of the astral plane. We’ll float
like heavenly barges and spit

I am the wisest animal.
I always stayed in the most important sense
right where I am.