I survey
deserted capillary
roads and cellular cottages near my pot-choked patio
as I wonder if it’s
a full earth on the hidden full moon
or what the
twinkling sun looks like out of the
window of a
space-ship passing Pluto
or what fluffy
cotton newspapers would be like delivered to the door
with actual news in
them —
but it’s Easter
Saturday and God’s dead, Nietzsche reigns and
the afternoon is
dry, everyone but me is hungover and only I
am trying to write a
poem as I hope you’ve noticed.
Nothing on my mind
but Death of a Salesman
as I recently reread
the play and saw the movie with
Dustin Hoffman et
al.
Having just walked 4
kilometres up and down with Kate in the Botanic Gardens
on Black Mountain.
Not a propitious
start, or ending, for any work of literature.
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