I do not finish journeys, so turned off that dream. South of south, mountains of meringue. And east and west, spices and all that. I doubt it. Anything that can be refrigerated, I'm for.
Nobody knows why, Or how it feels, to starve.
Not close by. Because of the spare elegance of the lines, other poets' familiar phrases sometimes echo, from Yeats, to Frost, to James Wright, to Robert Bly. A hole works toward the toe of my left sock. My mind shames me. The music will not play.