I woke up real early to write about death (the lake through the trees) from the angle of the angel. There's the kind of angel that when I say Someone please push me out of the way Of this bad poem like it was a bus.—well, it comes running & tackles me and oh, it's divine football—Or in the dream when
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Skinny dirt road In the middle of the ocean. That led to the house of art. I took it. The engine nearly Drowned. I lied that it was fun That I'd do it again. When I got to That shore The house was gone and when I looked back, so was the path. Now I'm old. Drown in my bed A thousand miles inland. For years I thought I could Art my way back. Cats sing Of rose dawns. This country's a Mirror image Of the one I left, except I've bad dreams. And You're the only Person who's not here. Is it the same For you.