There is never anything new except right now.
I have not tasted this listing breeze,
Coming to me from over the countertops of deceased mountains
In the fires of forging the new ones from the old ones,
And that seems ungainly to me, like a prayer of playing without the fine-angle zoom of Last year's history to set straight the right and the
Net of leaving everything you've begun since learning to sing.
Trouble pokes over the horizon, lending every air the spectrum of incredible holiness it deserves. Whosoever edits my life will have to deal with time.
I will already be through it and out,
Out, I say,
Wishing nothing but the brightest pearls for all the lighted friends of this form's
Adventure in visibility.
We who can know and disappear
Shall
And who will be the wiser but the air?
