There's the drizzle that relieved the forests today.
Ranciere's forest of symbols. An artwork of draining ties.
I blank down my laptop screen and remember Yeats. Says diseased minds must pour out notoriety. Like the great rumbling skies
after a few months' sour gulps throw up on crawling sheets
stained between memory and oblivion. The bed is moist for growth and Plath's pain.
This smell breathes organic on misbegotten tissues that I spell as memoir. I look out for glimpses in gain ,
within the trade marks of sap
I had slowly spilled in the shower. My words swell before noon as things mean so little, so plain but
take up whole nights of ease to refill the lost comic vein. In voids. And there, now, to live, I feign.
Putting up with bits of strawed out intelligence on dark leaves on the shore, at a summer night, by the bay