The flower in the glass peanut bottle formerly in the kitchen crooked to take 
           a place in the light, 
the closet door opened, because I used it before, it kindly stayed open waiting 
           for me, its owner.

I began to feel my misery in pallet on floor, listening to music, my misery, 
           that's why I want to sing.
The room closed down on me, I expected the presence of the Creator, I saw 
           my gray painted walls and ceiling, they contained my room, they 
           contained me
as the sky contained my garden,
I opened my door

           The rambler vine climbed up the cottage post, the leaves in the night 
still where the day had placed them, the animal heads of the flowers where 
they had arisen
           to think at the sun

Can I bring back the words? Will thought of transcription haze my 
mental open eye?

           The kindly search for growth, the gracious desire to exist of the 
flowers, my near ecstasy at existing among them
           The privilege to witness my existence-you too must seek the 
sun...

           My books piled up before me for my use
           waiting in space where I placed them, they haven't disappeared, 
time's left its remnants and qualities for me to use—my words piled up, my 
texts, my manuscripts, my loves.
           I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in the heart of things, 
walked out to the garden crying.

           Saw the red blossoms in the night light, sun's gone, they had all 
grown, in a moment, and were waiting stopped in time for the day sun to 
come and give them...
           Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered faithfully not know-
ing how much I loved them.

           I am so lonely in my glory—except they too out there—I looked up
—those red bush blossoms beckoning and peering in the window waiting in 
blind love, their leaves too have hope and are upturned top flat to the sky 
to receive—all creation open to receive—the flat earth itself.

          The music descends, as does the tall bending stalk of the heavy 
blossom, because it has to, to stay alive, to continue to the last drop of joy.
           The world knows the love that's in its breast as in the flower, the 
suffering lonely world.
           The Father is merciful.

           The light socket is crudely attached to the ceiling, after the house was 
built, to receive a plug which sticks in it alright, and serves my phonograph 
now...

           The closet door is open for me, where I left it, since I left it open, 
it has graciously stayed open.
           The kitchen has no door, the hole there will admit me should I wish 
to enter the kitchen.
           I remember when I first got laid, H.P. graciously took my cherry, I 
sat on the docks of Provincetown, age 23, joyful, elevated in hope with the
Father, the door to the womb was open to admit me if I wished to enter.

           There are unused electricity plugs all over my house if I ever need 
them.
           The kitchen window is open, to admit air...
           The telephone—sad to relate—sits on the floor—I haven't had the money 
to get it connected—

           I want people to bow when they see me and say he is gifted with poetry, 
he has seen the presence of the Creator.
           And the Creator gave me a shot of his presence to gratify my wish, 
so as not to cheat me of my yearning for him.