We found my cousin
In my uncle Trevor's barn
He slit his arm from
Wrist to elbow and
Back again

Hey lay there twitching
A goldfish in broken glass
They shook him, begged, pleaded
I said: "Let it be–
He's gone, gone, gone."

There's a sweetness in the worst things

My room was bare, so I
Hung a fuchsia over my bed
The blooms hang heavy
Thrusting pistil, dripping spores;
Almost obscene, withered and ignored
They fall to the floor

There's a sweetness in the worst things