THE CREEPIEST THING IS
THAT SONG HAS NO BRIDGE
If it snows before Thursday I'll be stuck like
a patter. No landing until Haver Creek. No inn
to break the dreary sky, and not even bread to
chew on. These stars I'm under make me so alone.
I wonder why : disparate is the gloaming, broken
into shreds, everything I see ends up just rolling
away to other ends. The millbank is overgrown.
I can't tie up there. No, I can't tie up there.