Quarter in hand to see "Raising the Dead"—
But they forget everything, the dead.

The Flood of '94 in Georgia?

This one
I have glimpsed
on and off for years

That I sit all night
Charting the fathomless possibilities of failure
That I am out of work of course

Things, no matter what they are,
Can get out of control.

The priests have a problem
on the borderline of ethics and accounting

too many have seen
his son’s pierced hands
his ordinary skin

During a pop concert
Mr. Cogito reflects
on the aesthetics of noise

In the morning mice scamper
over the head
over the floor of the head

He writes his memoirs. He is trying to explain the place of the hero in a system of necessities, to reconcile the notions of existence and fate that contradict one another.

      I give thanks to You for all of this jumble of life, in which
      I am drowning since time immemorial helplessly in dead
                                                                                                           earnest