In this rain, these crests of trees flip with famished response. These trees, our own, set tone. Water rolls the streets to marshes, marshes are set. A word sets on every point of the travelogue, even as the grey clouds lift three inches, just to impress. Stevens, the greatest poet in corpulent times, dares to drink a martini. His children, thousands of them, settle in petals. Leafy daydreams sputter thru the window. There is an image left behind, one that dazzles with last humour. A backache becomes the essence of New Hampshire, and ripples of auroras castigate sameness as the discussion turns on a jet. What does language do when everyone is quiet? A dusting of rain thru the day and into morning a baroque event, no doubt, we would watch for more. A love of such and such, then people thru the years, then what course does our dance take? It is curious to remain standing while others take their seats. Their seats are prominent responses. Each step with the drum, intended, becomes a cooli...
poems, fireflies...