Sick
Brainsick
Spread all over the map like intellectual custard.
Lost
Bodylost
Nerves and skin and blood and loose tendons; liquid.
Like a small lost child on a nameless day, under a
motionless sun, grass above my unguided vision.
What lies beyond the hill?
Are there trees to shade this fervered forehead? Is there
water to quench this aimless thirst?
Blades of green, worm-tillings, a couple of aunts,
Andy Warhol and Bob Dylan, a
shelf of hourglasses:
What lies beyond the hill?
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