Home truth: his bedrock’s miry
With runny knotted hearts.
Bring to light no walls but damp
All background built-in books,
Green-old and the cost much
Hulled down on wave-crest shelves
Where blotches charge at punctuation.
He wades through print
In a waterless bath,
Or on drinkmoney days into nightfall
By a lamp that saturates the page.