I don't have those dirty limericks with me,
unfortunately.
I'd like to read from my poems, starting with some old ones
and ending with some new ones.
And I'll begin with one that's particularly old and--
I read it a lot, but it seems appropriate now.
It's a poem that I wrote from when my son was born.
I'm about to go up and see him; he's in Arizona.
He's up at a school up near Sedona.
I'm about to go out and see him.
This is a poem called "My Son, My Executioner."
My son, my executioner.
I take you in my arm, quiet and small and just astir,
and whom my body warms.
Sweet death, small son.
Our instrument of immortality.
Your cries and hungers document our bodily decay.
We, 25 and 22, who seemed to live forever.
Observe enduring life in you and start to die together.
So that's an 18-year-old poem.
And I think my poems have probably gotten younger
as I've gotten older.
They certainly changed a lot as far as I can tell.