Let The Peace Of This Day Be

It Takes, Unhappily, No More Than A Desk And Writing Supplies To Turn Any Room Into A Confessional.

It Is A Curve Each Of Them Feels, Unmistakably. It Is The Parabola. They Must Have Guessed, Once Or Twice - Guessed And Refused To Believe - That Everything, Always, Collectively, Had Been Moving Toward That Purified Shape Latent In The Sky, That Shape Of No Surprise, No Second Chance, No Return. Yet They Do Move Forever Under It, Reserved For Its Own Black-and-white Bad News Certainly As If It Were The Rainbow, And They Its Children...

You Go From Dream To Dream Inside Me. You Have Passage To My Last Shabby Corner, And There, Among The Debris, You’ve Found Life. I’m No Longer Sure Which Of All The Words, Images, Dreams Or Ghosts Are ‘yours’ And Which Are ‘mine.’ It’s Past Sorting Out.

It All Comes Down, As It Must, To The Desires Of Individual Men. Oh, And Women Too Of Course, Bless Their Empty Little Heads.

Let The Peace Of This Day Be Here Tomorrow When I Wake Up.