about the fool and her robes
above the precipice with her dancing dog
across a vista no one can see
after the sun has turned ash white
against the yellow sky, which is
at noon, perhaps, or very early
before two in the morning when
below all sweet snoring and
between the folly of humanity
by the frenzied snail of dream images, oh
for what? How do I write a poem
from the edge of the escarpment
in this state of delirium, nullity,
into words that signify what you see
of the world, without knowing how you feel
on the bindle of language, the relationship of this word
to that word, the feather in your cap fed
up
with the gaud of it all.
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