The sheet peels off. The spirit dies,
Yet sight persists as through a haze.
In death, we’re left with just our eyes.

A drafty basement. Bitter coffee. 12 steps.
Attendees join four-fingered hands
and bow blue, green, orange, yellow heads,
in surrender and serenity.

[This is the poem.]

If ever cheese were cheese, then surely you.
I’ll never eat another; that much is true.

His faithless cock wants to feel her sigh:
tender, deliberate, slow—
He could never love her like he wants her thighs,
her sleepy bending legs, vulgar phrases she borrows.