Night
a janitor comes and sits
near me on a bench
I continue drawing perspectives
he lights a cigarette
perspectives
vanish like Joan of Arc
he yawns consonantly
I think of being locked
inside the moon
it is time to go
on my way home
I pass through a
cobweb strung
between pine trees
***
Morning
and on this concrete
stoop where I am
there are scratched
initials
it is
a sort
of poetry
there are equations
of love
an economy
mostly there are no names
anymore
but symbols
formed of the overlapping
***
Max Douglas: look him up
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