I thought I had made a friend.
The muse stings while children sings.
Pound’s brain an inscrutable zygote.
With its fleck, its oddities,
with its fish-like non conformity.
Pea-skinny fibers connecting the fine
gossamer threads with martial solidity
like the clock inside the glass.
I am ready to give what he did.
Proof of the Milky Way, a kind of inquiring
mind, people of a certain interest
standing waiting in a train station.
The nostalgia of my heart and then
of course there was Alba. She made
me feel like any journalist in this unforgiving
world. She was the foliage. The wave.
Sight. Sound. Light in deep winter.