thinking now
how little stayed—every imprint
springing up
thinking now
how little stayed—every imprint
springing up
soaking aquarelle
for clouds and Payne’s grey skies
full of ghosts
there ag ain—
the irr eg ular rh ythm
of his bar king co de
waiting for the train—
freezing temps, no gloves—
warmed by afternoon
in sleep,
a sort of surf, on waking
a squall
finding a deer just
outside your door—you startle
each other
all of us
wishing to be from
where we are
fog clothes us and
blurred balls of colored light lead
somewhere hidden
watch—rolling light
spreads block by block in daily
revelation
these streets
made straight in ways un-
fathomable