A form for coming and going, for approaching, doing, and taking one's rest. For movement among tasks, all propitious singular to themselves. A stalwart affection. Trees against the wind.
The telephone call. A bit of work.
All the work and looking back as if you could, but you do, and you are not happy for it.
You do, tree, who cannot quantify the nuts.
Of nuts, unqualified, their barking proximities as if the soul, unskirted, demands skirts. And while you have the answers in hand, for all answers suffice, you look back, alone in doing so, and perhaps that is why, electing aloneness, a sleep, the regular sort so fraught.
Oh, we die every day and by choice.
See the monuments fluttering into the waste basket or stacked and quarantined dirt-thick on book store shelves.
I continue willing to confess hope in painting, or hope in stating that hope. Some species of wakening clarity. As if stepping off a curb thoughtless, honked.
