i found a poetry left behind in a basket of discarded words, a penny each, the going rate for thoughts or —
so I hear.
we have symmetry when we speak, I hope – ear to ear – I want to write in yawning loops; I want to write you: “you make me want to write”
and say it with such undeniable probity that nothing denies this the property of firmitude, and leave it all — yet — to windy chance.
I found this in my pockets; I’ll leave all I have with you, and take all this here
with me.