Brian Lowe

Sometimes of earth, he stares at them Few butchers to hang their cuts any in the window more His thoughts do not keep long in a grain-silo mind It is fitting that the girls no longer bare their breasts In public it is a rude show of youth Sometimes of earth, he eats of them On television the important is made inane He (stop) switches, like a train Tracks like a hare or hound Most good is not god at all but youth Sometimes of earth, he buries them Street beard back, and her lining shows Not angelic, but the starchy heat of earth