II

2 0 00

II

The skin-sack

In which a wanton duality

Packed

All the completion of my infructuous impulses

Something the shape of a man

To the casual vulgarity of the merely observant

More of a clock-work mechanism

Running down against time

To which I am not paced

My finger-tips are numb from fretting your hair

A GodвАЩs door-mat

On the threshold of your mind