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You have to get the point of not thinking,
I always find that that helps. I'm tired of words
and language, bored with village life,
the way specks of dust insist on always
drifting in the sun.
Animals are not your friends. They make
their mark and then move on, leaving a hollow
in the garden, a trail of scent you cannot smell.
The heat is on and golden July leads to chrome
September, just like it did last time.
You have to get the point of not thinking
about money all the time. Supplement
your income by selling tears or blood,
explore the simple strangeness of pale limbs,
driftwood laid out in a line.
Animals are not your friends. They bite
and howl, disturb the night, and shouting
does not help. This is speech we cannot ever
hope to comprehend; a dialogue with place
and nature, matters of instinct, not of mind.
"I am an extremely busy man."