It is late or early for different people
I am without a name
Others talk in the smoky railway car
Morning sun—the loneliest physics—
My feet shift under the seat
As though my toes
Stitch seams on carpet
How one makes poems from nothing—
A train, a few flickering points—
Don’t cry body, we’re going someplace
**
Finnish poet Tua Forsstrom: “Nothing terrifies us more than the godforsaken places”
I don’t know about this
When I think about it—terror and nothing sacred, I think less of the outer world and more about my bones
She would say: godforsaken means bones too…not just ruined orchards…
But the bones invented godforsaken in their private sphere
**
Well well
I didn’t have much when I came
Don’t have much now
I do have a well worn record of “Swan Lake” which you can have if you like
**
I like black currants
Planet of the Blind 