A horse made of driftwood walked into my dreams the other night. Soon after, an old poet appeared, riding the back of a turkey buzzard. The elk in the road turned into a moose. Italy paused, having lost her boot. There were no words, but there was some sort of curtain, and some sort of curtain parting. I woke feeling a little like Brando. I coulda been a Krishna.
Meanwhile, after long thought, (and suddenly off the cuff), one comes to realize the lyric poem is not enough. One has to wonder if language itself aches to escape itself. I suspect it does. In the wake of the boat, the row. In the throes of the boat, the rumor of autumn. Floods, fires, and refugees, sun, moon, and Weldon Kees.
It's when going upstairs, not down, I tend to trip, or stumble. Up, down, back and forth. Mumble, mumble, mumble. My kingdom for a (deep, dark, and absolutely clear) truffle.