September twenty-second, Sir, the bough cracks with unpicked apples, and at dawn the small-mouth bass breaks water, gorged with spawn.

Their monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat.

In the end, there is no end.

The world is absolutely out of control now and is not going to be saved by any reason or unreason.

Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.

We are all old-timers, each of us holds a locked razor.

September twenty-second, Sir, the bough cracks with unpicked apples, and at dawn the small-mouth bass breaks water, gorged with spawn.