Could we without form be otherwise bereft? Satisfaction is a poor teacher after all. Tiny koi circle the whiskey barrel where last year begonias blossomed.
This far and no further is a metaphor for what type of sickness. We insist on dying and so do. I am reminded of the bitterness of coffee.
I mean that form of any kind obscures content, no? Cameras make the world safe for Hieronymus Bosch. We drank and drank and the yellow moon slipped through the sky precisely as it did on those nights when we didn't drink and drink.
It never ends, the day for traveling. One comes to the conclusion one was meant for this. A kind of simplicity, a kind of dawn solitude.
The enlightenment is now. With what dream shall I appease you this evening? Trapped into asleep, like miners in a well.
I looked for but did not find the marble chess set. I cleaned the fan while we talked because you angry makes me need to move my hands. Who is blessed by such productivity?
And who reads these days anyway? Who woke me to say go walk before the birds then come back and write this poem?