The Waiting

Tradition, only the present

Tradition, only the present Hazy to meet here, pacing, deciphering sky speech, factors sweeping willows to dirt & bound to what the tongue cannot see. I make my bed. I sleep on the floor. I was sitting onward and upward, feeling my way between piano chords, the way not attached to the escalator, Mars hanging in the atmosphere like a ghost town rearranged. What carrot, now, will I give to the goat whose crocheted eyes are only needy? Who will remember the cracked stein in the heap? The blushing disembodied cannot hear the bike chains clinking poles, reverberate, defenestrate, last words in drifting balloon high above our heads. But serious & dark & wind pitching tents within the saved pebbles in my pocket. But lukewarm & sliding, standing there before the termites reach my hands. 4 ] ...