It is a story about—skin, story
of poetry. You find yourself at his,
the middle of heaven though it has fairly
been agony to go, one nasty day of
so much to worry over: Night falls; it's a
sliver of night. Who brought us back together?
Just a result of luck shoved to the side, a
chance—luck's fruit; from a risk that light burns in
dark...it is a story. In skin—a history
of poems, full story of poetry got made
one night not wanting to: Across the page of
life. . . . 's a story only words, a simple
tale which means it's true.                                   
                                   Now, those stories one
only brags about in fear aren't found out, though    
he was sure awfully gone away—a filthy
day, loaded with cares and then, bam!, night:—it   
  is a bite of night which brings us back to each 
when all the stars have aligned and appear certain      
proof is when chance fruits grow from the sidewalk.              
                                                                   This
     is a story in skin, a story about poe-
try; the poem's own history which was written
one unwilling night its shining will as dark, the
bright night burning in darkness, the black; a
history of skin.—it is one story about
life; a history of skin, it's a hist'ry
but poem: This single story of a word's
story is words? A story about balance, it
was history in skin, history of the 
flesh: It's poetry, a story.              
                                       This being
but one history of the word "it's" a
history of self-controlling and flesh.
This story of skin it—exists, poetry's tale.
A story 'bout my man? Its words, modesty;
the story of being on the level as a
story of skin, story of "Skin is..." A story
of poetries in time's history: With
words it's a history 'f each, one—simple story.