I am detrited with the day by the end of
it.
Mornings are clearer for the kind of work
that a poem requires. They sing, sometimes,
with the promise of a fullness
that never really seems to materialize, does it?
Mornings are clearer for the kind of work
that a poem requires. They sing, sometimes,
with the promise of a fullness
that never really seems to materialize, does it?
Or maybe it does, but in some other place,
maybe where the mountains pile on each other
like dogs or where the river moves faster
than a leisurely stroll toward what I assume
is the ocean. Maybe the promise was never
for me, but for another. Maybe it was you.
maybe where the mountains pile on each other
like dogs or where the river moves faster
than a leisurely stroll toward what I assume
is the ocean. Maybe the promise was never
for me, but for another. Maybe it was you.