And so we sit again by water wanting to write
Frayed green benches and afternoon seas
Take out again with fingers stiff
From cold the shining
Pad of paper light
To only occasionally misspeak from wishing to weigh
Our means of perception.
And for every ounce of meaning we lose a pound of silence.
This is language not logic. The shrill odes of complacency.
Rags for the bone man.
If only grudgingly the light gives way to careful arrangements
Of pre-estalished patterns that touch
World upon imagined world
Myriad persuasive arguments
Reflections on the nature of time and trash
Commit to it the whispering voices of dustbin astronauts from lamplit ghostly
Passages
Let it ring with news of poetry
Like delicate shouting matches between
Mountains made molehills
As meaningless and
Desperately important as visiting a stranger on the day
Of his death.
And so we sit again by water wanting to write
Frayed green benches and afternoon seas.
