The purest day is a day without hands.
Face clean,
Numbers – reliquary abstraction.
Blankness is blessed,
and it unwinds to ancient time.
Below the beat of clock, deaf to appointment, to hunger, to anticipation.
The end comes when we are told;
Foretelling is for fools.
Harvest.
In the Middle of the Night, Thinking of Wine
I was awoken in the middle of the night last night by a vision of the life I live — one that is beholden to the fates of Nature