[LAUGHTER]
Well this is another poem, it's called "Our Subject Death."
She told me to tell you not to worry.
Why bother?
She said, looking for trouble?
The love of a woman is a course of instruction with which
she said you ought to begin.
I did the best I could without being polite.
She was a wheel on my chest, a giant flightless bird circling
me for attention, indescribably graceful and even friendly.
So that I knew the pressure was building to make love to her
and I didn't want to die.
Love, says the husband, what ruin do you lie in.
Love, she says, we are both in one grave.
But the dead are not dead you can still
see them standing still.
Nothing had changed still.
I knew she was my chances, my angel, humped and struggling
and good for her.