Kenneth Rosen

A black streetman comes swaggering towards me, High starlessness above us, an invisible god Of winter cold hiding the moon, stars and snow. He's in a Rasta cap and a shapeless coat Of well-known orange tweed, an African weave. He talks like a robot. [...]

I wanted to burn myself, so I threw my tools In the fire and tried to pull them out. The screwdriver with the plastic handle—yes, It made a mess of my hand. My drop-forged Pliers—those pliers I use as inadequate wire-cutters, Or for rounding off [...]