XXV.
I wrote
the children
the vulnerable
shitting fucking eating
two of these you do not tend to do in groups
I write my hands cry
the earth
the reversal of the earth
pity for the poet
for the poet is of praise
for the praise of she
for her understanding
awful understanding
I wrote that truth should stand still
for she is full of praise
daylight spent
morning light
he praises on big feet
the plinth a monumental stick figure
his brain his big brain all its slick technology
in the spent light
for nothing but the violence
of shitting fucking eating
folds the air
into her mouth
be still she said
excuse my sex
today my hands write
pity for the day
