Peter Orlovsky is dead.

Snail Poem

Make my grave shape of heart so like a flower be free aired

        & handsome felt, 

Grave root pillow, tung up from grave & wigle at

        blown up clowd. 

Ear turnes close to underlayer of green felt moss & sound

        of rain dribble thru this layer

        down to the roots that will tickle my ear. 

Hay grave, my toes need cutting so file away

        in sound curve or 

Garbage grave, way above my head, blood will soon

        trickle in my ear -

        no choise but the grave, so cat & sheep are daisey

        turned. 

Train will tug my grave, my breath hueing gentil vapor

        between weel & track. 

So kitten string & ball, jumpe over this mound so

        gently & cutely 

So my toe can curl & become a snail & go curiousely

        on its way. 

1958 NYC