MEAT

Blood's on the edge of it
the man with the knife cuts into it

the way out via the door to it
the moves you have mean nothing to it

but you can't get away from it
there's nothing else left but it

have you had enough of it
you won't get away from it

this room is thick with it
this air smells of it

your hands are full of it
your mouth is full of it

why did you want so much of it
when will you quit it

all this racket is still it
all that sky is it

that little spot is it
what you still can think of is it

anything you remember is it
all you ever got done is always it

your last words will be it
your last wish will be it

The last echo it last faint color it
the drip the trace the stain -- it.

From WINDOWS, New Directions 1990