in spite all my intuitions
one couldn’t count on fingers and toes
the things that help the poet disappear
it’s the will of a man that keeps him walking
not the shoes on his feet
or the feet in his shoes
though both are helpful
it’s just one catastrophe after another with you, isn’t it?
(one must be willing to let it all get rearranged)
poets, plights, people, and playing cards
virtue is relative to the medium
sense the same as the jar it holds
counterintuition can often be the safest practice
because you know yourself well enough
not to trust your instincts
(no, it isn’t something you said
the wind just blew a funny way)
the sky is rounder than it looks
my feet have left the floor
like i’m flying through a paper sky
