Now I am your gun poem, I won’t be put down,
nymph by nymph, this May morning I hear your wife
fall: Other worlds, dwell in me not drown! Daughter!
What lurches whelms. She’s sloppier than weather,
her red drapes parted: comely gap amid
such sulking gore. Her ways maybe but not
her part I’ve taken, and drawers of pills drown,
choric,—I keep you you keep me—her snoring

wail, fingers that slip the porcelain lip. The time
you died, I was moved upon while halls were tongues
of fire that wandered me, my [UN BORN, IT] taken
for [BURN UNIT
O]. (eyeslips)
You’d read to me
some lines from what was open. Dear, the born are falling.
Our chests shall open in the usual fashion.