nolo contendere
yet I do with inertia
two steps three steps
at a time
gravity wins in the end
sparks fly
stars sweeten the infinite
above and below
brilliant perceptioins
temper the mind walls
open doors
coffin thoughts flee
morning
the peignoir
the fruit
& daily news with coffee
the poem beyond me
beckons bestows
random gifts
nutriments glad
and sober
I cannot make art
no one can
Art is not a thing
made
or thought
that force by which the
thing made
or thought
finds expression
I know less and less
and less suffices
more is surfeit
Instead of all the things
I used to do I do
the things alone
that move me
bred in the bone