It’s raining for some reason over West St. Clair St. 
That merges in a cloud bank with Riddle Rd.; 
Evening Star Lane lent me to kiss Iris one fine night 

there were faults, ducts formed by the earth tearing
our cities apart. Out of this madness, a cry mounted

as if by name, cursed what sky lay just above Zo'ar,

Salt pillars are no obstacle and we
look forward on remorse. The present rain
of fire is man-made, and from a deader sea

He :     Deep in the cockerel’s golden heart
              I loosed my bolt.
              The clarion-bird lies mute

A poem must break to the surface
and nibble at light,
confounding refraction

I could not see the life I live.
Wheeling to catch it as it was,
I found myself the fugitive;

Before I knew the Japanese
And they would come down on horses
To chop off fingers for practice with their swords,

Many spoons in the sink, and that means it was a dull night, too much coffee and ice cream, not enough foreplay. If there are many forks, it was probably a good night. But most importantly if there were many knives used, it was a great night, even if misunderstandings arose, people 

When we showed up for the reading drunk, John,
We were in celestial form, unmixed
And brimming. Having just decoded