i am in sadness, the whale's belly.

the hideous flower paintings would be there awaiting him like last christmas.

her face is a little porthole
where a stowaway peeps out, forlorn

i pine for sixty fife men

all ninetee fore years old.

the torn rough plum
its cheerful terror of skin
its sweetness of wetness on lips:
upbeat electrocution:
a whole orchard of eden apples.