Its a bit mad. Too bad, I mean, that getting to know each just for a fleeting second Must be replaced by unperfect knowledge of the featureless whole Like some pocket history of the world, so general As to constitute a sob or wail

To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.

The first year was like icing. Then the cake started to show through.

I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.

Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.

I don't want to read what is going to slide down easily; there has to be some crunch, a certain amount of resilience.

And so we turn the page over. To think of starting. This is all there is.