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.