2000-11-07

Faithful paranoid

It's all One to you

isn't it

Real, that is,

Literal

enough

To find a snoozing place among thick visions

till she'll stumble

over you

Or wait till rot down

with the

majesty orange

she stuck on

her finger

Real as the worn green

hideabed I brood on

Never hearing clearly enough

to remember

Or openarmed at the passage end

The homeless

Who lights in her/from her/is

(Her moving human perfection)

Waits for no one

Not even you

I'm sorry.

lisamcc at 04:18:41

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