March 22  2001

Forty-eight



all the counting into one or three or four

the telling score and a mysterious taste of salt

shadows roll over the empty

yellow slopes and not a spirit walks

philosophy apart

standing in the grassy dales

watching for the moon

no clerk to open the register and no visitor to take

sunlight on the wall of the empty room

 

 


back   next

Close the window to return to the calendar.