Abandoning romance for the hermit’s cell
To write prayers to life, called poetry--
No?--Murdering his wife, then confined
To a cell, the poet--No?--
No poet hates taking no for the question.
All things are ruled by Fashion,
Poetry and pants, death and dance.
Bert’s time machine flips from ff to ww, wrongrong. When fast forward turns iffy, even maniacs get depressed.
“Sleep is for weaklings,” Bert said.
Bert’s ticker dual functions as time machine.
The river rolls on its gravel bed out of the mountains. The green heron stands on a boulder awaiting his fish. The river whirls and gurgles. A bear, fat from all summer, sashays along the bank. A hunter loads. Bert imagines the gunshot, the bear splashing into the river, the heron taking flight. He imagines plunging into the river with the dying bear and finally he sleeps and dreams.
If not, not. If, if.