I started the day with rain in a dish.
There’s always a place like that.
It’s a short lived complex structure.
Mind-house with leaking roof.
Up river someone is singing.
Steinbeck’s ghost.
You can smell the rotting wood.
A patch of garden; damp earth.
A solemn stove rusts in the woods.
Call me what you will,
Friends, enemies.
October winds pass through.
Every day I’m closer to creation.
Planet of the Blind 