On love and a halloween costume.

The whole way down telegraph today I listened to the Black Saint and the Sinner lady. I thought of cold, fall hands, with wrinkles that swirl and ebb. With grit under the nails /// Your hands run grey under the first sink water, and then clear after a few seconds. My visions seems to cloud, and then clear, cloud and then clear. 

Under the arching of telephone poles. The anger of old men. Buffers between Berkeley and Oakland in shakes and clear sky. You are like a perscribed burn. Dogs bark at the fences; I rush past. Don't miss this sung star strife under moonlight/ don't miss dancing either.  

Maybe a kid looks out his bedroom window on stagnant field of house and road near Defremery Park. a Sunday that sets in. He thinks of one moment when heart was wrapped full, and gets the chills,/ the detailed scene/ We are committed to impermanence. Sleep, eat, apologize, laugh/ then always filled with the unmet. 

Feeling of head on stomach/ of gaping bowels/ of climbtothetopof this stacked mess/ of escapism on escapism on escapism/  no,/ I will look at this solemn, here, piece of glass/ the sctraches/ the edged sheen over the park passing/ the cells floating through blue sky/ the flights of all the houses, and peoples passing and I will/ 

feel your pale hair/ and my friends good will/ as an alwaysupon ever/ the buried in dirt/ your dirty hands/ inconsolable anger of everyone/ inconsolable love/ gifts of now/ wrapped clean and clear in tomorrow 

xx, 

sleep well.