A hand’s turn or two.
A hand’s turn or two
and my work is done for the day.
Behold my suit of meats
and fat tarantulas. Check out my cloak of knives
and pinkest heliums.
Our lilies are broken by the wind.
Broken by the wind, and then they rust.
Broken by the wind, and then they rot.
A habit I seem to have formed (and can’t afford):
each morning at eleven, a latte at the same place,
at the same table, my own inviolable spot
downwind of the non-smokers.
Coffee. What a racket. I must be nuts.
But I’m making an attempt to live, you see;
I’m conducting an experiment in living.