Oh shit!
The Books are here that I ordered from Amazon:
Poetry for the Millennium
They are two days early; only one is missing.
They make me nervous and anxious, though
yesterday was my birthday.
They make me want to write
a poem.
This one is vast, careless, without manners.
This one makes me feel that I have cried for a long time
but not long enough.
I know that when I write I will engender a fabulous
comprehension
It will create in my reader the knowledge that all is
pre-destined, in the sense that you and I have made choices
They corral me further into a charitable institution
They reek of tension.
They want me to dream freely of heaviness made sensible.
I will not light these books on fire
I will not smoke them in my pipe.
I will bring love and time.
I believe
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