Our brief winter is buried in the warm
thawed earth now, I tell this to Hillary,
we were all a little befuddled there
on Broad Street.
The merchant told me that, when young,
she set her mind on living in a shack.
So she lived in a shack, in this our
teeming ghost state, and then she met
I'm not going to send any love letters to
the void anymore, because
it doesn't seem to notice how pretty I am,
how pretty my living heart and medicine prose.
More fool me, every day.
The truth is that I drove up, past the
green quilt hills, the chalk-white Egret,
unhurried in the rice marsh, I drove right up
to this patch of quartz land to write a Great
And I did not write a great book,
but I'll drive home tomorrow
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