Because it midnight is, I left her, in a car made of milk
she was drunkenly pushing ferns into the ears of small boys
(and the faces at the dirty window, of all the people I've hurt)
I entered the convent. It was made of rats' skins.
I crushed 12 bishops there with my left hand,
for I had fallen in love with a horse. I stole a dozen eggs for him. His coat was of meadowgrass.
Then I turned and saw my father rolling down a hill, into darkness. Night is a boney ear.
How thin the lake's door is, my parking-lot, my sweet savage. He said, Milk being dust, is an orange, is an all-night radio. I said, Captain, I will squeeze through, always.