Parading

47. There is no right or wrong in Proust, says Samuel Beckett, and I believe it. The

tell me straw into gold tell me crept into fire

I’d never look back

I used to think that to write poems, to make art,

Level as moonlight, some lost aspect

I ran into the handwriting of yours

spray of ink most certainly

Freedom is a rocket,

To be the thing not touched by light (no that’s not it)

And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn