Once the sun avoids my own triumphant neck / then what will show of / my blond tufts become a spike of light, herald guardian star: mother, father, distant-planet caller, heed your actions thusly: / He is not a destitute array of wasted sight as much as often. / You have emptied cuts of pencil-shavings into busy hampers filled of trash and asked: / Why am I so wrong and feeble? Why am I so stuck inside myself? / But the bell’s clapper sang something urgent and you were unable to see it was I in the rubble—who stumbled.

Bit Sting of a Big BumbleBee Really Humbles Me; / I believe it’s a lesson they told me I’d learn: how to burn and be ash and the difference, so / I believe / Jupiter’s waiting my Birthday in May / to be blessing me / garlands of well-woven strength (constitution) / and love’s prostitution for Heaven’s sake.

I break for nothing but physical harms and am charmed by the way I can learn of this pain; / We are the host of a typical quall: / quaking for fear now no longer—let the Earth, / and be easy, friend. /