Plop the live lobster into boiling water and let it scream.
You both turn red. 
Of course you have to eat it dead. 

A man walks briskly away from his body
And from feeling slightly sick on a blazingly fall day.
The sky is fresh perfection, without a cloud of illness.

Some people say sex is like riding a rainbow.
Maybe theirs is.
I say I fall on a grenade each time.

Each of us is also a ghost. 
Most you can see.
They look like the person you are.

I have a friend who has a friend 
Who asked her to place her hand
And place a flower on Samuel Beckett’s grave

The golden person curled up on my doormat.
Using her mink coat as a blanket,
Blondly asleep, a smile on her face, was my houseguest

Gulls spiral high above
The porch tiles and my gulf-green, 
Cliff-hanging lawn, with their 

It sang without a sound: music that
The naive elm trees loved. They were alive.
Oh silky music no elm tree could survive.

I like to be dead.
That’s what the dead say.
I’d rather be dead than so-called alive.

I smile in the mirror at my teeth—
Which are their usual brown.
My smile is wearing a wreath.