Thursday, August 27, 2009

tiny bubbles

fer george

the panic of running out,
the good stuff, the good
stuff running out, flash
flood, fast falling flow, flown,
fled, flying forth forever
into forgotten. this
will be like that, now,
like that, like that time,
time that quietly moved
and spread out its hands
across the face of that
round eager urge knowing
only that it knew, then,
only then it knew.

or, he said, write a goddam poem,
said he, who said write it, who
spoke of doom and brute dying,
wasted grieving, who grieved,
who waited drunk at the edge,
with me, the echoes rushing

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