A Possible Peace

Anchoring myself in the right is like
Making darkness into answers
That work like my own coldness:
With ogrelike flower dream.

And where that is going is to
pain.

Guilt and fear cloud family.

I don't say what life begins with.
I say there is tape -- the endless
Unrolling of which begins in
Anchorite law.

I seek nothing here because
I don't read at the nature of
My coldness.

It is dirt.  It is cold.  It is my
Thoughtlessness and my flower.

I am poor and drunk with pain.

It is my life to say that a world
That is an entrance to a grand
Axe asserts art as patience.

The Goddess named Kelly Bishop
Taught me this is my family.

This is my family.  I am her family.

I am her goddess of parts named
Art and Life.

Flowering in the fear of my own
Nostrand Avenue love,

I work at my own drinking with
A lot of lake.

Effortlessly I did what is my creative
Mess:  deal with it and I am
Fruit.

Working backwards from an attainable
Goal is my own family

Cashing in on a part of my thinking:
Estrogen art goes to patience and
Backing life with a sop of sharks.

Poetic pain is like stupid nuts:
Always borrowing itself from
Sorrow.