Constantly I write this happily
Hazards that hope may break open my lips
What I feel is taking place, a large context, long yielding, and to doubt it would be a crime against it
I sense that in stating "this is happening"
Waiting for us?
It has existence in fact without that
We came when it arrived
Here I write with inexact straightness but into a place in place immediately passing between phrases of the imagination
Flowers optimistically going to seed, fluttering candles lapping the air, persevering saws swimming into boards, buckets taking dents, and the hands on the clock turning—they aren't melancholy
Whether or not the future looks back to trigger a longing for consonance grieving over brevity living is 'unfinished work' to remember to locate something in times to come
Sure a terrible thing whistling at the end of the rope is a poor way of laughing...