7.13.94

Here the air is dead
Warm breezes carry bones,
clouds
Rain just shatters, fossils
breaking into drops.
And the sun is too alive.
I can imagine that if
the air were alive it
would be kind, not like the sun.

Birds sing happily of my folly.
They trill my mistakes more
beautifully than I.

Dead air, shattering rain.
And the sun is too alive
is too, is not, is too

Kingston again.
Kingston forever.
Kingston for me.