7 May 2010
I have gone
into the hills
the wilderness
is lovely
nothing here
needs care
of nourishment
we live
as we live
each
with their flagon
each
with their love
fallen
or surviving
night thunder
a soft curtain billows
catchment of air
rainfall
first moist kiss
upon the
window upon the
world
leaves
of the dead poet
Michael
sift in a paperback sieve
I ignite
a nicotine missile
smoke consistently
as a means to death
and
for an illusion of company
a smoke filled room
in my
weird night’s hermitage
I can no longer sleep
