reached down deep
blue above wind all around
as if in water
still dying of thirst in the mind
headstand just to straighten
things out number nothing
getting them here remains the only
problem unsolved like a mystery
amusing on lookers like a traffic accident
without purpose writing with what comes out
pay no attention to how
and don’t ask why it won’t make sense
still common enough
to make one read no audience can hear
where he sits only cats and birds
can comment with song
that’s if they can read over his shoulder
it’s quiet out in the sun no relief
cool breeze blowing smoke back in his face
the other direction is slow
and his fingers can’t stand the cold
air in April an oxymoron
like living the weather in New England…
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