AN ICELANDIC MAIL BAG
'Carrying something to the edge
of the clouds, you cannot drop
anything, for there it disappears.
Minds go empty. The wind tries
rustling through an empty grove.'
-
I got up, and told the guy who'd
written that he'd missed the mark.
-
'Too many things all mixed in a
cold bag of nothing.' I never did
like these seminars : fish-schools
of poetry-fools trying to dimly
outwit each other.
-
Now I'm here. They're all gone
and only this memory elapses
my time. They were working
stiffs, in Westfield, NJ. From
Merck, no less, which gave its
workers some money-incentive
to 'better' themselves. Free
credits to nothing at all.
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