Sunday, February 21, 2021


All these lines are only notes
I’ve been making for a sad

And banal poem that I will
Not write—for an extremely

Succulent poem whose long lines
Would prove the Earth continues

To run circles round the sun
With a full freight of creatures

Crawling all over its skin
For the reason that nature

Invented death to give life—
Without ends in death, no lives,

And it’s only death lives need
To keep life on Earth alive,

But, so long as I’ve dreamed this
Awful poem, I’ve lived, and now

This note is seized up, mid-note,
Since it knows it’s just a note.

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