This poem is taken from PN Review 12, Volume 6 Number 4, March - April 1980.
NightmaresPrivate, at least they were truthful
In their way, the hitting of nails
Straight on the head, into
The live pulp of loves and fears.
Pierced there. "I" guessed how little "I" knew
What under the skin "I" was,
At best learned what to do
About the cells that regardless
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