Tuesday, June 29, 2010


I can feel the wait-time withering me -
it's the sum, the reel-rhyme,
the distance of that Atlantic
sea, that hole of whole blue and whole
green, the water I can't tread

or love or see. The time ticks,
turns at its fastest, slowly -
I sit with the night's clock,
sleep - dream memories and green
with slow growth, slower patience;
read Kerouac, at intermittent stays -
he's either too high
or too low - Buddhist? - for me;

but I like his simple monastic happiness -
it's like you, out there. Singing.

Rev. 8/9/10

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