Mother thinks theres something wrong around my

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Mother Thinks There-‘s Something Wrong
Around My Eyes,
She Should Know, Its Her Heredity:
Too Much Caffeine And No Sleep,
Bad Poetry, Rhymes-
I-‘ve Been Hibernating In A Well Of Hallucination,
Now Look At My Shadow Swing Across The
Wall, Like It Did In Kindergarten,
It Is The Only Thing That Is Real.
I Am Reading Auden, Six-Hundred Pages
Is Not Easy, So Intermittently I Ejaculate
On A Green Towel, On A Cloud,
And Ask The Simple Colony Of Gods Which Sting
And Eat Their Own, If Rimbaud Wasn-‘t
Real, But One Of Them, And Verlaine A Kind Of
Courting Thrill, The Way The Sunlight Might Often
Fall But Only When A Body Is Alone,
Reckless And On Mowed Grass, Insects As Azure
As The Bottom Of Airplanes Exploring The Sky.
A Glass Of Coffee Between My Legs, This Little
Dog Wet From The Thundershower Which Broke
The Horses Until They Trampled Over Arrowheads
I Stole And Gave To Her.
Too Many Of My Poems Use The Second Person
Pronoun To Be Anything But Helplessly Amateur,
But If The Roses I Bought For You Are Still In The
Infant-‘s Vase Upon The Window Sill,
They Have Turned Brown For Such Awhile.