What does it mean? I lie awake;
My mind needs rest, my bones all ache:
So needy and so loath to take?

    People did not know what she knew, that she was not really a woman but a man, often a fat man, but more often, probably, an old man.

I escaped, spinning off
   to heaven knows what
         location, eluding

I see now I was 50 percent to blame.
That’s right. And, because I value fairness,
I’ll apologize for leaving you
alone with my dad that time we sprang him from Bellevue

Weary am I now love
now that I’m weary of love

      On a park bench after dark,
      practically begging
      to be assaulted, I—Wolf,
      you bit my hand off.

I’m a sad case, really: little things please me.
                                                                                     —Len Goodman

I drove 50 miles to buy a birthday present.
Why: not so much bigheartedness
as pleasure in the process—

Frankenstein, an early adopter, fidgets by firelight

Over rooftops, over time
the rain washes. And walls
that had watched men die

I never imagined
him buried thus,
to the din of trolleys

It had to be some poet from Brazil
not one of the greatest, more likely to make a fool of himself
shuffling around somewhere in your vicinity or aspiring to dwell there