"in the wind
i am building soft nets for death
by pounding poems into the void
feeling much i suppose like a carpenter
with the understanding that
his nails will outlast his bones.
as an old man i'll find myself
walking along the river considering
the same goddamned garbage &
dead carp drifting by as it did
when i was very young.
in spite of myself
there is comfort to be found
in the few remaining things
that are too stubborn to change.
the chitter of morning birds
it is early, barely sunlit.
the earth for the moment
perfect. soon man
this footnote to my personal history says
my pen passed over this white piece of paper
which at first looked like fresh fallen snow.
then came my inky footprints. they wandered
off into the distance.
i have yet to use a computer
i am a dying breed
i take limited solace
in this small &