Saturday, September 13, 2003

energy went sequencing to the edge of some drift not yet named. one saw grey skies, a sorting for each season. and memories vulcanized while someone died. this belongs in the present: the list grows endless, sweat of the gods. but later there will be expressions of doubt, feeling sleepy. the work will rock the boating arrangement that we made. it's a kiss across the waves. our boats are stubborn force, not a hand to give. the cat is crazy, Idi Amin's dead, and cornfields slide to conclusion. no more talk, while poetry lives? it's a dream of something, anything.

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