Tamed by Miltown, we lie on Mother's bed;
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your old fashioned tirade— loving, rapid, merciless— breaks like the Atlantic Ocean on my head.
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O Bible chopped and crucified in hymns we hear but do not read,
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Life begins to happen. My hoppped up husband drops his home disputes, and hits the streets to cruise for prostitutes,
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the scythers, Time and Death, Helmed locusts, move upon the tree of breath;
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Flabby, bald, lobotomized, he drifted in a sheepish calm,...
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If we see light at the end of the tunnel, it the light of the oncoming train.
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Is getting well ever an art/ Or art a way to get well.
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the blaze Is infinite, eternal: this is death, To die and know it. This is the Black Widow, death.
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