tommorrow i travel backwards again to the town of my sculpting
hard cold mountain edged meeting the silent lament of the grieving sea....
small minded mercies given in pious charity heart of salt, ****** fruit... made the clarifying fast made the chill last....
grew the best apricots i ever tasted on the downside hill of the local necropolis...... yet the single cherry in our yard....never gave a lonesome globe....
and the timber jinkers sang my soul to sleep.... rested for the days next burden.... and the hard chip- chipping of the sculptors hand against my marble heart....
heading back to a family funeral..... the town i grew up in was a parochial place....made my life as a teen...hardwork.