I want to say love before death words but
they only dig at night they dig in the clouds
a Ceylon pigeon shat on the Spanish stairs
(but they vacuum the moon)
I mean the message never arrives
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Message to the future
I risk an early death by sitting down for this so listen: my clavicles move like daggers to write cut-throat poetry for you no jokes. no mirrors. This here is a message you cannot unread. Also, it ages less quickly than we do. When you and I have turned into dust, this thing will be ...
Reading: The Evening Of The Mind by Donald Justice
Donald
Going to Church
An old man is smelting the icon of exalted freedom. I watch him. He is well-natured, a force old enough to command. He swaddles the icon in a soft cloth and lines it up with the others. The light falls down from heavy window sills, I again write poems that die in mirrors or teacups.
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