I have swept the floor and perhaps it is a fantasy
Spawned from a heat-oppressed brain, but I think
Of Jung who sat on the rock in his youth and
Could not tell which was which
Most agree it started in Texas, at least.
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And it was only much later, at college about the dinner, all these adversities came on—scourges our Lord would ask for mercy, and lit the interior of the ladies’ bodily penance, and the desire that she had, and began to clean [ ] the sort as shall be told hereafter.
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All borders are porous, by these powers combined, and life is right
fucking strange enough as it is without your having
to understand what you could never understand.
What's the use of even talking about it?
There was something barren
In the chemical trail, flat
Basalt pathway clear
Of any trace of human
Life
I mention this not to anchor you
in the flow, but to indicate where
in the solid block of time
this poem, this
particular flaw or subtlety may
be found