I wonder about Austria. Is it anything like cancelled Czechs?
Do pigs fly? Is there a stranger there, to complicate
the one in me? Or must I rearm my filling station?
Can we trust otters to indicate us
(who seem us only in the evil rush), our
end never stooping to think? Oh, I was so right around you,
my sonnet birdcage, once. No, cats' tails immersed
in the frozen swamp are about all I have time for.
The daylights are so Polaroid. Yet time is often self-
centered. At least that’s how it feels to me.