The ice blocks of Poetics caught in the straight-jacket of Time's Almanac. Writing fades into thin air. Not sentences but sets. In my mental reservations, lunatic Injuns swing dream tomahawks. The windows of absence people the faces of silence.
Transparent tears ride the black horses of tonight.
Swords click the stillness of seconds from the face of Time. My preoccupations run frentic circles on deserted beaches. Their backs face each other. In quick death they follow the paths of my words. Their paddle-swords sink into my ocean.