#po'try

There are worse things than having behaved foolishly in public. There are worse things than these miniature betrayals, committed or endured or suspected; there are worse things than not being able to sleep for thinking about them. It is 5 a.m. All the worse things come stalking in and stand icily about the bed looking worse and worse and worse.

outcrop the neck dropped slightly lower than the ear

Victorian poetry at its school-yard best

It's not only the word roses lurking inside neurosis or the fact that most of my formal education occurred in the midwest, so too my summer job inhaling industrial reactants should be considered. It's an unstable world, babe. Always an inner avalanche as they say in receiving. I'm sure if I'd gotten a shot of Karl instead of Zeppo Marx in utero, things would have turned out differently. Instead, my mother went right on eating lobster. But where were we? . . .