CONFESSIONAL POETS

No more drugs or pills
from many hours, seven hills

on inner high rise heaven
in uneven phrases and phases

in a sinner's age of Eisenhower
and dull T.V dinners

being traumatized
and self-analyzed

like steeples' mocking birds
people are talking words,

everything is at our feet
living like in a Dutch treat

giving out baby hugs
and indigo flowers.