Some More Mornings

How little can I do (little I can do) to the drumming of our morning — pretty clothes chauffeur this morning I thought you looked like a scientist (thinking of the poet & scientist who is neither a poetic scientist nor a scientific poet and laughed because they are the same thing) we’re finding the groove & the tongue of two cities, the ports — both ports where some kind of typing music washes up to be lifted from the sea or the sand — I’m not writing to make lists on this train I’m thinking of yr fortune & plans inclusive of the west fog and hazy skyline now that we’re here w/o any intention to return to the outposts we called each other from. From which we culled each other & not that history can’t or won’t reveal itself. A silo, the train underwater. Neither of us seemed so alone. Safe and sound a glow — your sleepy eyes like catching the eye of someone wise through a rather thick crowd of people — it’s not every day you hear a good farewell song w/o having to say goodbye but still grateful for the heartache it brings.

(notes on the BART train, June 9th)


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