OK, I'm going to read.
I'm going to read next some prose
poems which I've been writing in the last year or two.
They're quite new and it's a kind of newer thing that poets
are doing.
So I won't try to explain it.
The first of these is called Bark.
Grotesque, all those anxieties eating their way out
as we get older, your old governess remember
the way she wore her woolen stockings all
knotted and rolled like the veins in her legs
always tugging at them.
Out of breath one thigh straining
against the worn upholstery, and the elephant's foot
your favorite cousin brought you from Africa
for your 10th birthday.
He set it down in your bedroom, your eyes
astonished at how rough its wrinkles were.
The coarseness of the inch long hairs stiffer
even than the brush your father used
after he had forced your tiny fists out from behind you.