What could I possibly write
tonight ?

That it's raining and I am
gravely disappointed
with myself?

That the hush of the tires
and cars passing by
are venom to these childlike
ears of innocence ?

I have been
in the rain , and these tears
are no more real than the passing
of time . . .

How can the mind still feel
o'er icy throes of winter?

Pints measuring pleasure
is a treasure unafforded
by the stubborn parent :
reason . . .

Who shines this light
thru oceans far and wide
thru which we see ?

and salty .
and dead ?

in

the reverberating haze
of the ex
of youth . . .