Why can't I sing about the fucking
birds
anymore? They are just fucking
beau-
tiful, so why not?
The day, the dew,
the delicates,
the dainties
of fifths of thirds
of gin: how much can you fit
in a stack of years,
a clutch of blocks?
What do
the snails fear,
can life
be the space between
the drill
and the bit?
Oh hang it all,
my alter ego,
site
of all this sightlessness.
The leaves turn red,
etc.,
without you, and the cabs
keep going by;
why don't you just
quit
and feel for once?
The night comes on
like lead,
the dawn
like burstings-forth-from-water.