Shaky At such times as these I can cope with Only one poets words
Not even the many Translated metaphors Of that fine man Neruda Can be caught in the cup Of my unsteady hands
The race it seems is on Too early for contemplation Too late for strong liquor The bathtub soon brings The blood to a boil, the skin Akin to waves of loose undulations
The country singers are mournful Strains float in with the steam Nobody holds me Nobody knows me, nobody knows me 7