He's still famous. I had a ball, it rolled out of sight. I ran after it into adulthood. I learned to believe the right lies and sign myself with unreadable flourishes. Now a hammock sags just right between a willow and an oak.
White clouds pass like rich men with saints in their pockets.
Rich men and saints are hard to tell apart. White clouds out over the ocean, my deathbed sways in the wind. All rights reserved.