bred in the bone

nolo contendere

yet I do with inertia

two steps three steps

           at a time

gravity wins in the end

           sparks fly

stars sweeten the infinite

above and below

brilliant perceptioins

temper the mind walls

                   open doors

coffin thoughts flee


              the peignoir

                         the fruit

& daily news with coffee

the poem beyond me

           beckons bestows

random gifts

nutriments glad

            and sober

I cannot make art

        no one can

Art is not a thing 


                   or thought

that force by which the 

           thing made

                        or thought

finds expression

I know less and less

and less suffices 

more is surfeit

Instead of all the things 

I used to do I do

the things alone

              that move me

bred in the bone