I cannot see the difference
'tween the sounds of chain-
saws and leaf blowers. It's
October and could easily
be either sound the chorus
played vivant and long
is growing old. The thin-
ness of it disappears or,
drowns out of all sight and
does not return. The foliage
colors all ariot have be-
come flat ; a distracting
flat mask cut-out, though
so colorfully.
And the repast of the rain
that fell awfterward; an all-
day event and a sort of mourn-
ing.
§
The rain comes through all
slack beside the curtains.
Comes through with all it's
might, small holes cut in um-
brella's surfaces by thread
cut through and holding it
together. And trailing through
the bramble'd heather, moss
bespekled peat; all water,
feet sink in. The moving past
the trees, the din of rain on
leaves set up to convey a
thing, but without meaning
—but what God can give.
And isn't everything, the foot
over foot moving, despite
the treading's turning inward,
flight?
Why can't the tracking past
despite the turning inward
paths despite?
What quiet literal device
is divisive? Who's set up
this repast to spite it?
