foot up on
the floor,
that would-be-
feeling of
flustration,
& the bough
a pendulum;
I’d scream but
my tongue is
quit of its
eternity —
how is it
on the beach
at Cradle Rock
I’ve only eggs
to pick up
’round the clock
Poetry
foot up on
the floor,
that would-be-
feeling of
flustration,
& the bough
a pendulum;
I’d scream but
my tongue is
quit of its
eternity —
how is it
on the beach
at Cradle Rock
I’ve only eggs
to pick up
’round the clock
fidgetin’, what’s this (?)
four-poster on the floor,
unassembled, yet
wrenches & ratchets,
scissors (the measure),
one big smile —
that’s for youth,
philips screw driver
I ran to
a garrett-
eer, if he
had AC,
I would
take it,
freely —
‘Watch your
back,’ he
said, ‘&
your step’,
but we
pushed it
thru the
window
hot, all about
the cedars,
good I have
my fan
rubberband-
ed ’round
my spine-
less book,
& a ‘brella
just in case
pigs fly —
they usually
do, & wonder
why, cannot
he see thru it
I’m only
painting
sky today,
blue lakes
tomorrow
maybe shore,
which to
use of
ultima
& truly —
I must
go out,
I’m running
out of green