"...Like they give me wings as red as my cuts,
And icy, like they give to penitents; like on the dusty field
Near those hills, where I trained in their Quonset huts,
I'm flying; when the windsock is unfurled,
Stiffened by winds of the weeping, I'm gone; like I sweep
Down spiraling to the suicides' salt anger;
Like in their sobbing wards I'm diving like a shrike
Into their wounds; outside, the Duchess of Moisture, after
More, with her dizzying, freezing rains
And her worms and toads, attacks through the mist —
Fuck it; like I'm kissing the cut wrists and the burns
On the suicides' arms; like I'm giving them blood as kissed
As Christ's; like I'm bending over their shut eyes,
And I'm whispering, like in dreams; like they hear me..."