Right now I feel so goddamn rock-and-roll—
like a grinning

Keith Richards death’s-head.

You can see my watermark if you hold me to the light.

The brain needs oxygen. The humors need war
and rumors of war,

and myths about resurrections,

songs about car crashes half remembered
from a fevered dream—

I woke up cleaning gravel from the strawberry
on my knee.

(sing louder now)