Tuesday, September 09, 2003

the child is a little storm, a way of saying. on the edge delivery, a courtyard and the ocean. death isn't a name, yet words block or are blocked with tuned out or in, as same as that. an alien is a message pure for fear or what can be left after dark. sleep needs help, in the lesser words and daily tried to line up. guilt is a tumbling block, a bland thought for effort. there are sick and there are chance. a wet difference when the day is around, and drying in the autumn sun. it's all a pleasure, sometimes. it is all in definition, tho the work settles on cobwebs, that stretch across hosta leaves or cornered. years of turning the edge in, years of. a startled mention of what we lose. the alien present is a past word or more. a child relinquishes on this note.

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