the city sleeps a pre-smog slumber
and
Ashberry is dead, like Wordsworth - beautiful words to soothe
the aristocratic mind
from the stress of colonizing.
in nonsense is strength, from metaphysics
comes physics
from the physics of the mind
comes a virtual world,
and a heron hunts in the sewer outfall:
czas pogardy, czas zemsty, czas idiotów z karabinami.
the paw-paws slowly ripen, the mist is thick above the river that tastes like soap
and the heat returns.
7 mellow souls on a float,
and all of the them came back.
the wave is glass, and pretty fast,
wide enough to carve on:
the dark is bottomless white
air in the water
won’t support a low brace.
there is glory in this fool hardy life:
boofs
speed
and pittedness
soothe the psyche; the return to normal
grates, with the sun high it feels the day is done.
momma always told me
no blood no foul.
