They are dragged in the  nakedness
Of streets
Their routes are dis-used
They try to cope as they sprout
Their voice is now deeper than bass

KIDS

Their eyes are light complexioned
As innocent as their names
They recognize the normal
And run from the mad.

I would have stepped in the modern gutter
Your shoulder wrestled me out
Into another ring where the kisses of your
Tender lips
Strangled me in the dark
I would have won
But my bed was wet
Waking up should have allowed me the prize.

The Poet's pottery

His diary is fat