RICHES
My place is like a guideline, sinking : there's
nothing left secure for me to grab to. The harsh
wind blows its defensible end through the rubble
of where I dwell. Pens and pencils alike have been
blown from my hands, leaving me little here at all.
-
Staccato runs the wording from my mouth - like
some cartoon word-balloon my mouth makes motions,
and words appear. They float and stay. Or they wander
away. In either case, so little to do with me. Oh, yes,
I am awash in a richness I cannot ever see.
-
This old overcoat lumbers - I already ready myself
for the Autumn and Winter to come. So little enthusiasm
is left, it is as if I am an archer now without a bow, an
artist left with no brush, the woodsman, here, without a knife.
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