Time
The stomach twists and binds,
Puking into a rhasphody in light,
And the gut is raw;
I know in this time,
That it is right,
My mother weeps over
The loved bare breast,
Signing a form of release
To her blister's crotch.
The stomach is broken,
And so now is the right
Light for my picture;
Now, in this time of
Utter fortune,
I must write.