He came back and shot. He shot him. When he came
back, he shot, and he fell, stumbling, past the
shadow wood, down, shot, dying, dead, to full halt.
'A closed window looks down
on a dirty courtyard, and Black people
call across or scream across or walk across
Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note
Lately, I've become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
An Agony. As Now.
I am inside someone
who hates me. I look
out from his eyes. Smell