I Am So Imperfect, Can You Love

We Are America. We Are The Coffin Fillers. We Are The Grocers Of Death. We Pack Them In Crates Like Cauliflowers.

I Was Spread Out Dailyand Examined For Flaws.

I Wonder If The Artist Ever Lives His Life--he Is So Busy Recreating It.

The Fish Are Naked. The Fish Are Always Awake. They Are The Color Of Old Spoons And Caramels.

There Is Joy In All: In The Hair I Brush Each Morning, In The Cannon Towel, Newly Washed, That I Rub My Body With Each Morning.