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
No comments:
Post a Comment