was it night or morning was it the fontanelle between plates of day / I could see the opening as timpani head and it made me blue with wonder standing on a soft hill seeing what was sharp signal me to when things became round again the trees are in prayer I thought / they’re rigid because that’s the stance we take to ask when things are going to change not knowing there is no break just bones dropping to dirt hope shedding without our doing / you must commit to destroy ideas at the place before you name them you must stay and let your self stay and let you must stay and let the light wash your face
Notes
After “Poor Moon” by Canned Heat.