I’ve found out night-times are long and slippery
every dream is wringing wet

I’ve found that the cotton you pulled out
          from under my body
was something I can not explain

I’ve found out the scent my body emanates when
          I’m swaying back and forth in a chair
is not as sweet-smelling as you said

I’ve found myself squatting in sunshine’s prison-cells
          busily writing verse
and to all the people I meet I’ve said:
Do not let any poem too easily finish