You Stupefied Me. We Waxed, Carnivores, Late

The Ellipse Is As Aimless As That, Stretching Invisibly Into The Future So As To Reappear In Our Present. Its Flexing Is Its Account, Return To The Point Of No Return.

So I Cradle This Average Violin That Knows Only Forgotten Showtunes, But Argues The Possibility Of Free Declamation Anchored To A Dull Refrain.

But Always And Sometimes Questioning The Old Modes And The New Wondering, The Poem, Growing Up Through The Floor, Standing Tall In Tubers, Invading And Smashing The Ritual Parlor, Demands To Be Met On Its Own Terms Now, Now That The Preliminary Negotiations Are At Last Over.

Reading Is A Pleasure, But To Finish Reading, To Come To The Blank Space At The End, Is Also A Pleasure.

The Winter Does What It Can For Its Children.