there is thick shadow
something about impermanence
(status)
body occupation
brick back and cast iron
hips braced by vast empty
unconscious– trailing rubber smells lying
leaves are drying
again brittle calendars
dissolve into runoff
gravy of the side street
cast of centuries
headshots in shades of
black plague a tangled
address taut cords
connect (belittle)
such fathoms sound
bathing in empty wind
rattle each chatting stone
shorn down
to its thinnest
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Tags: 662 Driggs, Henry Miller, Poetry
