I have wondered, of expired bottled water:
What would it taste like: would it
Taste like her
Sick fantasy to squeeze the zits off me,
Who is malarial and am dying of it?
I watch the young mother and her elderly other,
In the bus, make a mess with their
Unmanagable kids. Spill the Cream Soda
And blame a kid for it, who’d gnaw away at an apple:
One quite unlike the one that Satan gave.
Of apples that grow on trees; apples that come in boxes,
Poets without morning erections,
Like Frost and me, we write.
Do you think, then, if not for the power of faith
We would still knee down by a tree? We might.
I support federalism
Within the political party,
Whimsical and in awe of a family broken
And torn, as it were, of incestuous dreams,
Picnicking yet unpanicked somewhere in the wet zone.