it's so impossibly simple -
         to go to bed when the birds start
singing for the walk-about of the sun
across the sky -

               and to have slept throughout
the day - to wake come 6pm
and never mind:
                             what was to be lost?
the pristine dollop and
the crystal clarifying azure...

              perhaps all that...
there a good day - and all the wishes
and window shattering... secular reclusions...

all this: one word-bomb after another -
a life "apparently" wasted:
a day not lived...
   but even crazier waiting for the night...

as many other nights...
to just be crazy for the nights...
      becauase dreams: hardly take concerns
for details: the impossibility to read
or decipher letters in them...

a life "apparently" wasted...
           "something... not... quiet done?
i hardly think so...

   notably... the very readily and all
the more forever available...
           two chapters of Dickens...
          oh that prose... well two chapters
of Dickens...
            and then... from the sitting...
perched on a windowsill - sitting on a folded
foot...

      learning to breathe two poems of
e.e. cummings...
                  by anyone's standards...
that's 1928... and what that was...
                         this does not necessarily have
to be... not now: not some imitation
game...

   fawr byd...
                               hwn yw ddigon:
    coch-cosasom chwerthin.