WEBVTT

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[LAUGHTER]

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Well this is another poem, it's
called "Our Subject Death."

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She told me to tell
you not to worry.

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Why bother?

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She said, looking for trouble?

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The love of a woman is a course
of instruction with which

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she said you ought to begin.

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I did the best I could
without being polite.

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She was a wheel on my chest, a
giant flightless bird circling

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me for attention, indescribably
graceful and even friendly.

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So that I knew the pressure was
building to make love to her

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and I didn't want to die.

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Love, says the husband,
what ruin do you lie in.

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Love, she says, we
are both in one grave.

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But the dead are not
dead you can still

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see them standing still.

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Nothing had changed still.

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I knew she was my chances, my
angel, humped and struggling

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and good for her.

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