For now, the poems will be arranged in alphabetical order by the poet's last name. Each time I go out to walk the dog. Things have come to that. And each night I get the same number. And when they will not come to be counted I count the holes they leave.
Nobody sings anymore.
Only she on her knees, Peeking into her own clasped hands. The wife is ivy stuck to his skin. He lurches along, pockets full Of worries and fears and things to do, Each one a stone Clapping against the next. It's not like paint or water Or anything else I might choose. It's blue in the first, invented way.