Parading

big bell says: ‘We are all strangers on our own turf, in our own time.’ You should have

Mostly the world is lava’s rhythm,

Who can blame us for wanting other worlds,

I’ve weighed the alternatives, the hold

fermented into green books of music, loud country music,

He supposed that if you thought hard enough

could teach the shadows

the impossibile replication of weight

It is poor comfort that the mind comes, saying:

staring me down, serene and pitiless