HEADED HERE
Storm warnings; listen to the banging of the flagpole
in the wind. The surface of the land is open to
suggestion. Everything is tracing its way back in.
-
Month after month, papers peel from calenders that
yield their pages but tell us nothing. This spinning
orb has us all the same. If I smoked, right about
now my lethal ash would be three inches long.
-
Outside this dark window, where the waters hit the
wharf, where the boats are gently rocking, where the
ice is hanging from rope, where even the cats are
tired of going, another night rolls in - spitting
carnage like junk over every ebony'd surface.
-
No light is in the harbor, and every light is old.
I walked, today, these thirty yards five times
to carry this or carry that to somewhere. That old
ramp-walk gets tired and old so soon. Just let me
rest here and catch my breath. The surface of the
land is open to suggestion; everything is
tracing its way back in.
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