Conjugal Visitation

An ordinary love story,
Baked in clay;
While Bartholomew
Spent his days
Dreaming of the ocean.

I screened a number
Of elevator musicals;
Came up with ornamental
Philosophies based
On the cold and callous
Intercessions of devils.

Until that day in February
When hells broke open
And confiscated my youth
To a degree
Of folly
And quietude.

My back was broken
In thirteen parts;
Butt glued in intervals.

And God spoke to me
With a judging and condemning
Tone;

And I walked the cold
Streets of Iowa City
In the dark without a way home;
My feet burning from the cold.

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