No change
poem #112
No change sorry Man. A wind comes between my hat and I. My skull is cooler now than it was upon calculation. There is always the word. The tongue wags a bell in the air. Whose tongue? For my part, I take me down to the stone, beneath the willow by the river. Good breeze. If I had for lack of change or anything else to live outside, it could always be worse than the willow raking the river's dark shoulder; stone warming and cooling slowly again to the word—that escape from nothing.
Cool skull, warm stone,
nothing escapes, yet everything trembles.
I sit, a quiet witness,
to the slow breathing of air and dark water.
Do you know in your geographical brain of mind that camping sleeping out for an extended stay in a beloved neighborhood w/out money is doable as healthy as we are fed up when young to be? It is like dropping a story in the building out of your frontallobes dedicating yourself to the qualities of captured cardboard and etcetera to preserve you. But maybe cancelling your subscription to the depressedmode as they say people do where they are under threat? It feels like sweet treats.