Little Song

 

Every body a suit

Every body a suit

Every body a suit

Every body a suit

Every body a suit

Every body a suit

Every body a suit

Every body a suit

Every body a suit

Every body a suit

Every body a suit

Every body a suit

Every body a suit

Every body a sweet inhabitation of its separations.

 

The Husserl

 

Wasn’t that

A dance craze?

 

 Anyway, consciousness

Of one’s

 

Own body

And willed movements

 

Makes for

Intuitive fullness.

 

The Poet at Seventy

My destruction

is incomplete

I continue

saying nothing

Something

A word

if you

don't mind.

to the

and flow

*

behind the

*

for any

of their