- Baudelaire in hell
- Language has impoverished eyes. The path existence takes
- explodes with seeds I want to eat to bloom, to understand;
- digest. Therefore, poets are creepy things stapling their
- in see through bags to each page, always digging, thinking
- of China. Clair De Lune is the song I hum as if to mock
- from my earthy crib no wider than their shoulders.