Nightwools in magnetic fields
yet I lack all spark. Wheatgrass
blooms with seed the men--
sad with me--call grease.

I am glad to undress for slutting up
and then not--blinded with far
smells, I stand blank in the life-midst
a glutton for morning.

In halfsleep the black
minutes lengthen their spines
womanly as bread.

They sigh, rise and fill
vacuous hours with dream... a fog
of other-kissings. All is somehow
wrong--literary, or whoreplay.

The manheart frames me
and I attend its disease.