The pen light is sufficient: for all
the day was the scenery without comment
spread without detail only such
as the colors of the sky too cold
to keep my head uncovered: so the
buildings have no touch to them, just
the doors – in heat and vague
articulation of life the Romantics
spread and feign comfort as I
am losing the calluses from my hands
like glued wax paper that knows the lines
 I become softer in spite of
thronged vitality and make monotonous
 note of insomnia, the birds, truck
two-bit thoughts, to be forgotten
promptly as paper dries - ants
  disband so quickly - to make charts
and rate like a footrace,
earn a star against these
   the books that kill us dead



don’t save this