I can't wait to fly
into Ft. Lauderdale.
I write, I eat.
I equal a man
with very bad posture.
back to the cellar prep:
Cod holiday, get drunk,
tune in time immemorial.
I was not yet sleeping.
In the meisner end,
I washed up on shore,
battered and benevolent and alone,
an ace in midnight Wellington.
the touch of Heaven grass
is rough in locavore eat...
since platters and guitars.
I hear voices.
Candles make defference
and
axe-handle restlessness,
details we have left,
with the fallen days
we have reminded ourselves,
there is no sympathy,
we focus on the fumes
and we remember what we chose:
fire or force,
both barely used.