When they began talking of digris
She looked at me at my empty silence
but you write write poems
how come you got no degrees?
the stamps in this detention mind
turn livid like a charon capsizing in Urine
the smudges on my face are debating faeces
the wormz these my fingers are typewriter keys
the Cry in the raining nyt trying
trying
to mangle the english sanguage
I forget
my dreadline is close
I have taken my poems
I'll get the books when I
bring your money
the typewriter was neva mine
