When I Was Walking In The Mountains

You Will Love Again, People Say. Give It Time. Me With Time Running Out. Day After Day Of The Everyday. What They Call Real Life, Made Of Eighth-inch Gauge. Newness Strutting Around As If It Were Significant. Irony, Neatness And Rhyme Pretending To Be Poetry. I Want To Go Back To That Time After Michiko's Death When I Cried Every Day Among The Trees. To The Real. To The Magnitude Of Pain, Of Being That Much Alive.

We Exist With A Wind Whispering Inside And Our Moon Flexing. Amid The Ducts, Inside The Basilica Of Bones.

We Are Resident Inside With The Machinery, A Glimmering Spread Throughout The Apparatus. We Exist With A Wind Whispering Inside And Our Moon Flexing. Amid The Ducts, Inside The Basilica Of Bones. The Flesh Is A Neighborhood, But Not The Life.

The Heart Lies To Itself Because It Must.

But Anything Worth Doing Is Worth Doing Badly. Like Being There By That Summer Ocean On The Other Side Of The Island While Love Was Fading Out Of Her, The Stars Burning So Extravagantly Those Nights That Anyone Could Tell You They Would Never Last.