Smoking grass is my hobby.
But slowly my hobby became my whole job.
When we met
you had just been to Geoff's mother's funeral,
but no one let on
how everyday was one.
I loved your red painting with the blank
pages, 1980, 1981, when John
Lennon was assassinated.
All the sidewalks in New York were red.
I thought it was my blood.
I don't like idle writing.
I have to go through every paper in this house.
All around me I see the de-emphasization of sex.
Funerals and a bier bearing briars.
All the difficult courses on the left; on the right
poetry instead of the prices.
Little descriptions, in calligraphy.
Now one has so little money in one's bank account
shivering there in the brass pocket of night
What it used to be to be a woman
Before used to be married never.
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