"Below Below"
In the corner of the heart reserved for action,
a pig is eating the poppies of hell;
it doesn't look up when I come in;
it doesn't need a confirming ideal.
If there are flowers there must be dirt below hell
where power has no meaning but growth comes out of it.
Now a door blows open and this sound starts
coming in until enough of the candles are lit--
Stage seven-- the thought of sorrow not as
an event the alchemist grew hopeful as the vapor rose.
Red-breasted nuthatch-- hello you wonderful!
Then, the federal deficit.
It goes on.
There are more.
The depression doesn't end.
It just goes on.