a chorus of authors
composes for the soloist
an abnegation of showing up alone
the likes of which
we hear all the time now
it’s a wonder nothing gets done
the object no longer the object
but the means, fretted over
a circle of knit brows
no point too fine
we’re going to the beach today
and if we never get there
it will be time well spent
No comments:
Post a Comment