deserted capillary roads and cellular cottages near my pot-choked patio
as I wonder if it’s a full earth on the hidden full moon
or what the twinkling sun looks like out of the
window of a space-ship passing Pluto
or what fluffy cotton newspapers would be like delivered to the door
with actual news in them —
but it’s Easter Saturday and God’s dead, Nietzsche reigns and
the afternoon is dry, everyone but me is hungover and only I
am trying to write a poem as I hope you’ve noticed.
Nothing on my mind but Death of a Salesman
as I recently reread the play and saw the movie with
Dustin Hoffman et al.
Having just walked 4 kilometres up and down with Kate in the Botanic Gardens
on Black Mountain.
Not a propitious start, or ending, for any work of literature.