This is probably as close as I’ll ever come to art.
Twelve Billion
I must hold on to
glad to be home
Returning.
now,
let go of the wood
to the thunderclouds
we’re under,
always apart
to omission.
to new meanings
to the feeling I’ve only been able to find
on one short strip
just East of Kansas City
that I am small in a
dirty daunting
to coverage of
the Be Beat
to frontiers of periphery
and the Knowns we never see
the wicker bowler atop the landscaper
who’s trimmed every week,
the yard across the street
which I’ve canvased in every imaginable state
which’s
since Mrs. Tanzay’s first grade,
Remained.
to Inherently Exhaustible Knowledge
