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Poem	I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in. Very quick. Very intense, like a wolf at a live heart. Not lazy. When a lazy man, they say, looks toward heaven, the angels close the windows. Oh angels, keep the windows open so that I may reach in and steal each object, objects that tell me the sea is not dying, objects that tell me the dirt has a life-wish, that the Christ who walked for me, walked on true ground and that this frenzy, like bees stinging the heart all morning, will keep the angels with their windows open, wide as an English bathtub.
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