Scratch him like stars
But the fields grow dark
The sun gets caught in a barn
The wheat stalks lower
And as the pilot still flies
Through the dust of the world
The lakes underneath
Go deep to no bottom.
My friend told me he is getting ready to die, and he is not afraid.
As long as he lives, he said, he does what he likes to do.
I placed it in my mouth, as you do with unknown food, waiting for the taste to show up.
I did the painting that you have here, not knowing what I do, as is always the case, except for being loyal to my sense of beauty.
Then I wrote the words that came.