Rebecca Byrkit
		Number Four is Heroin (from Suite :: Mary) If God made anything better, He saved it for Himself. --Charles Mingus No one knows more about the music I am into that I. Heavy bees, Listening, and the Stupefied copper of color Can all just thrust their humid And mobilized buzz into the aching amber hammock of my Heart. Please. I have the wings of an escalator on. I am a rising man. When God wakes, rubbing out of his snooze on the thirtyninth afternoon The rain is raining. The rain is raining hard. I get up. I get on down. Another Day my own sharp body, electric With jazz in guitar shops, stops. Every note I deliver disengaged from its chord Hovers, soaked, in its own honey ochre over The salted city, and sails the musical, salt sea of myself. This beautiful mess of mainline I've made is mine. Hell, I can't believe it. He saved me for Himself. Is it time?
		The Available Country of Women For Deni By the end of any appalling and brilliant day In any Athenian winter, knocked out on an airplane bisecting the sea, Exactly around the fire, a beautiful man or outrageous child Or father from a longer place, says I would die for you. Romancing a flame, crouching, crunching the ash, you either Answer: I know, or you will, or you did. You Wake, wild and typical as wheels touch down on fast black gravel. You want Waffles early Sunday mornings from a mix. You want Miyake, birch-smooth skis, A sun, a splintering sea. Irish Mist. You ask your dream, and mean it: why not Live out on the earth like this?