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There's a patch of old snow in a corner That I should have guessed Was a blow-away paper the rain Had brought to rest. It is speckled with grime as if Small print overspread it, The news of a day I've forgotten— If I ever read it.

There’s a patch of sunshine in my yard Only one little patch Rain falls everywhere But not the sunshine The sun makes brightens the yard But only one patch I will also remember that patch For that is where I wrote.

Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait, sleepless. --through metaphor to reconcile the people and the stones. Compose. (No ideas but in things) Invent! Saxifrage is my flower that splits the rocks. The owl sits above all On his tree Looking down at the words be of words, slow and quick, sharp to wait, looking for a moment always alert


adbusters in your face, weird site

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