From the Fishouse

The day that I found art in my first name
Was the same day I saw hell in my last.

There was a girl there, of course,--
Touching a wet finger
To a postage stamp,
Pursing her lips
On the double bed.

I went to kiss
The cat-tongue rough
Of her each bent knee.

I was weak then, not yet a liar.
One of us had said,
What we do is our own business.
Then we broke the windows,
And looted the store.