Meanwhile, back in

soulless America, people are having fun

as usual.

A bird visits a birdbath.

A young girl takes a refresher course

in polyhistory. My mega-units are straining

at the leash of spring.

The annual race is on–

white flowers in someone’s hair.

He comes in waltzing on empty airs,

mulling the blues notes of your case.

The leash is elastic and recpetive

but I fear I am too wrapped up in cloudlets

of my own making this time.

In the other time it was rain dripping

from a tree to a house to the ground–

each thing helping itself and another thing

along a little. That would be inconceivable 

these days of receptive answers and agressive querying.

The routine is all too familiar,

the stone path wearying.