One of these days, if I can get up the nerve, I think I’ll cut
off a piece of my own head and eat it.

 I love the egg.
  I even love my poor, thick, mysterious skull.

   I can’t write a damned thing, which was all I wanted to do.
   And all I wanted to do was write something that you could
understand.

I wish I lay in your arms only, yours alone with you alone with me, my lovely ghost whose body I have never seen.

One evening beside the river, only its name. Only one river, the Ohio, that is the loneliest river in the world.

Brooming the streets, sick drunk he hated life.
Winter after winter, his whining wife
Forgave him about midnight, and then she prayed,

I can still hear her.
She hobbles downstairs to the kitchen.
She is swearing at the dishes.