Ad Pulcherissimam Fireassam Mariannam

These humid days

Tend to craze

More than desert sun.

But if her heat

Will join this heat

Then come come Delirium!

The Beautiful Bain of My Existence (Jonesin’)

We’re all struck soon or late, you know

By taxes death and Carey

At least that’s what I tell my self

To console me for my broken health

And this new vice of poetry.

The Possums

When at night we forage for beer, for bagels

And such leavings as may be

I catch her dark and piercing eyes

And I smile, I smile without disguise

But she plays dead to me.