THESE AREN'T WET HANDS
We walk this way for a reason; the upright
crew, the bi-ped gang. Can't bend down,
got to get around. If I touch the soil, these
aren't wet hands, they're groomers for new
travel, they're sling-shots for fame.
-
The monk from Kinnelon Crest is here
again, eating rice like a lamb, but never
lamb like rice. He says. The rest is garbled
in the telling. If I live to be hundred, I'll
never know the meaning of life.
-
I've kept a travel-book now for forty-three
years. Each time I think it's filled up, I open
it again, and all the pages are blank.
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