I lied;
And should be cursed forevermore
With love in laces like a whore.

I reward my hunger with a toothpick of hide
And the queer folk in the windows
Smile at me and call:
"You would look nice in a wastebasket."
Conscripted to their shadow's glow,
Firm years precipitating days to death.

I am weary of words and people,
Sick of the city, wanting the sea.

Who heeds the fulying violence
Of jam-filled violets, the traffic lights
Of lips?
He that gave, and not asked.
What do they put in the graves of dissatisfied men?

I am weary of words and people,
Sick of the city, wanting the sea;
Uniform like tapestry,
Emerging into emphasis;
He's not afraid of overturning the tundra.