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
