Thursday, September 13, 2007


A typewriter smudge.
Busy.   Which was nice.
It flew by.   A gathering.
Last night my life

was a frame.   Dissolving
in salt.   A harp.   All of it
a fortune.   One message.
It was best of all

his lines.   Time was OK.
Together.   I’ve worked
memory with Mahler.
Our vials.   Full of else.

And things.   Stolen with
whom.   In love.   Think
about it.   What luxury out
in the streets under an itch.

A psychological problem.
Inevitable.   And yet.
I don’t.   Even.   Remember.
Gathering.   Any.   Dust.