AND OH THE THINGS
THAT ARE FADING
All this is getting so sad. There's a mast to the
mizzen ahead - we must bow and keep sanity
brewing on ice. Let me read the list of little
men : the blowhard, the official crier, the
man with whitened hands, the few who've
never worked. Enough of that for now.
I go away to visit. I go to Westbeth. I sit on
the bench made for me. I look to the west;
seeing nothing except what I am waiting
for. Two quibbling lovers come by, entwined
by tongues and arms. I want to gently say :
'Isn't it a bit early for that?', but then I
realize I really don't know the time.