I'm sorry, yes,
        for the trouble, the mess−sorry

        I'm late and shamed I reek
        of song and death−sorry I flat

        refuse
        to mend my way

        Someone is reading my book
        aloud. Is it God?

        Does God read?
        And the voice-

        a woman's voice but not
        certainly not

        my mother's who is dead.
        Anyway isn't God a guy?

        It's dawn
        and I'm raking the yard and thinking
        jesus I am

        fifty-fucking-six and still
        won't say
        what I need to say-

        when suddenly
        BAP!

    You won't know me, not at first, if
    in fact you show, it's late, I've changed, old
    greasy coat, no underwear, hair falling out
    while poem-spit dribbles
    down my chin: oh no you won't be sure, dead
    sure that what you see before you
    in the dreaming door is what you've sought,