Thursday, August 25, 2016


Every little thing I have done, 
I have done to advance my work
and keep the options flowing. My
head is down, and I keep to myself.
Except for this fiery pen  -  which 
just keeps burning the paper anyway,
I've not done much. The house I built
turned into a shed, the forest I planted 
has wilted, the dock where I thought to
tie my boat is now a funnel that just
twirls boats around  -  you can see
everything spinning in place. The
crippled postman returns my letters 
with a strange, one-legged gait. The
rest, I guess, is all up for discussion.
Here where I sit, there's too much
traffic : new people, old people,
the delicious and the dead.

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