Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.
Talking about the past is like a cat's trying to explain climbing down a ladder.
It's the light of the oncoming train.
Their monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat.
Pity the planet, all joy gone from this sweet volcanic cone; peace to our children when they fall in small war on the heel of small war--until the end of time to police the earth, a ghost orbiting forever lost in our monotonous sublime
In the end, there is no end.