Here we have it, the endless wrangling :
I've got to get the car in off the street, the
yard's a mess and nothing's even started.
I awoke to the morning light with nothing
going on, a cold coffee on the counter,
only maybe, nothing new. I made it new
when I turned around another brew. There
are winged motifs and encyclopedaic volumes
to everything I ever do. Yes, I want out, but
in this world I stay, too. Paradoxical improvisation.
That'll have to do. In two months time, there will
be flowers. A sort of dissident nation all blooming
underfoot. Yes, yes, I want to wait around.