Oct 11, 2008 14:00
Finding Presence
My words are menus
A Faulty prevention for
the translation loss
Like deer staid Solidly still,
Water rises against them
Eroding something
Driving I noticed
The season change like storefronts,
The fall amidst us
too much emphasis
on the past and the future
neglects here and now
My words are faulty
Always short of the meanings
Intended, needed.
Let these be concise
And clear to the sharpest point
This- me letting go.