For my sins I lived in Iowa City & my heart was dark as poetry itself–
My little heart my raven my common bird of dispositions
Joyful that God is no God to the hearts, birds, poems. The nest box
Of hearts, birds, poems sways up in the ash tree.
The hearts, birds, poems make a place in all weather.
See Picasso: A person, an object, a circle
Are all “figures”; they react on us more or less intensely…
Ted, no gods but walking lightly with tiny silver bells today…
S.K.
Planet of the Blind 