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He holds the rectangle up to the page to see if a poem's there. Go ahead, just ask him what he thinks about anything with a vintage after 83. I'll be up in the church tower, smoking a pipe or being smoked. The wine is strong but the lock is stronger. The priest comes from an era of heroic clergy, but we don't know what to do with him and spend our evenings mixing the oil back into the peanut butter. Gagging sounds come from the loudspeaker. From the unitards, the sounds of tennis. I head out to beers of the world and come back with all manner of slavic delicacy. One manner is pickled, so is another. Actually, they all seem to be. This is well before I know of flaming cabbage. The bright blue of sterno sends me straight to Bethesda. Spanking leads me straight to the securitization of Hollywood. I hold myself up to the lightning to see if a poem will strike me. Go ahead, just ask me.