A most convenient door
My dry, disgusted hands
The hammer of switches
My tongue, keyed to riot
One poor correspondent
Do tell, do tell
Lucy, must I see these wounds?
Cecilia, must I sing my qualms?
Hunkered down in the soil of solid dreams
Riding the shirttails of too many men made mad
I chart our dismal progress
Blood streaming from our maps
Above a remote and alien world
The innocent die but not as well
