This is a dark street, very big.
It has many cellars;
I stand in a quiet corner under a doorstep,
I must make more children.
A policeman stands in his shell
Bent under a bundle of crime,
His teeth are chattering like a poor leper’s.
He also is in the moon’s ball.
I am aware of an absence, presently,
Growing inside me, chalked-handed,
My belly does not move;
I eat my way to a fat sort,
Food smells in a potted chamber.
Here is a cuddly mother.
Little humble love though;
It is warm and tolerable
In the bowel of birth;
A stony hole. He is to blame.
I find no face but my own,
It is good for me,
For thirty years, poor and white.
I tried praying for forgiveness,
But God chuffed me off like a non-believer.
The child in the white crib revolves and cries,
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