The way it overtook him, late water and early insignificance
There comes the breeze
She’s waiting for someone, I suppose, to pick up her up, float her off from where she seems forever grounded.
in a way, for all your former silkiness, you were not.
Mountains up mountains down
You know the myth —
If I were a pine
'Cause we have become, walls
When the last flower dies; Dying in that space between the soil and the pavement
Reading Neruda and then Li Po And listening to Howlin' Wolf and then Tom Waits