A line of rain drops even without light resembles gems. Writing fast precludes rearrangements. After, the theory is . . . . or am I not yet awake? It's a blue jay, somewhere on the other side of Route 112, that's what it is. Can you see yet?
The truck pulls up, pauses, rolls away. Disgorged, gently owned. The study of consciousness is a matter of privilege but as so much else, so what? A certain date is fast approaching. So why not just move to Maine?
He wanted to say "nice hat" - or at least write it that way - but was afraid of being seen as ugly, or worse, covetous. The emphasis on structure struck him at times as spurious yet he persisted. He rarely stopped to ask why - at least not seriously. When it came to poems. The fragmented blue overhead was closer to amethyst by the time he "got it."
Forty was like the fringe of a tornado and the only thing in hand was a thread. I want to fold, rest - and in a deep way. A little black ball with hairs on it is rolling down the street.
In the bookstore yesterday, kind you and your lovely orange. And me - I won't say despicable but lost, certainly lost - and my spurned offers.