From home pieces

you go along and the little

house disappears in the side mirrors, a

vibrating image, indistinct; you go

along because hidden in the earth

somewhere, there is a path, and the

path takes you, though it never

reveals itself to you.

John kennedy is dead and

bobbie is dead and martin luther

king is dead because anger that

expresses itself through violent change

is part of the world of men - they look at

you impatiently, and then they turn and

kill one another for good reasons,

apparently;

and they are up there on that moon playing

golf and my new baby lies

on his back in the shade of the crab

apple tree and he makes a noise

that is still attached to my womb; the

bathroom we put ...

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