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ASTED MY BLOODIf this brain's over-temperedconsider that the fire was wantand the hammers were fists.I've tasted my blood too muchto love what I was born to.But my mother's lookwas a field of brown oatssoft-bearded;her voice rain and air rich with lilacs:and I loved her too much to likehow she dragged her days like a sled over gravel.Playmates? I remember where their skulls roll!One died hungrygnawing grey porch-planks;one felland landed so hard he splashed;and many and manycome up atom by atomin the worm-casts of Europe.My deep prayer a curse.My deep prayer the promise that this won't be.My deep prayer my cunningmy lovemy angerand often even my forgivenessthat this won't be and be.I've tasted my blood too muchto abide what I was born to.


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