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.
I am concerned with that venison in America But the juice is soured. This weeping as I wanked out of control, After breaking cross-haired whims, Galloping backward and forward, ahead the past, Behind the unfamiliar future, What were we doing, or were we, The mattress, the limber of lice, or of loves We were measuring olives, continually? A moon soon to be forgiven In crossed girders of past, hip Brooklyn charcoal In this peeping that has sized you again?
"The man that can save Poetry" was created 1/1/2016.