those clouds that tree this tree me
time space language
i always get so far and no further
like goldfisch
in a bowl
reason
embowls me
now
flapping about in the imagination
on the varnished table
out at least
gasping foul air
at the cave's entrance
after making the effort
you'd think he would
make more of a fist of it
instead of
lying
dying in the freedom of
stupidity
what was i thinking
those clouds
that tree
this tree
me
