analog scream
the last smooth thing
and everything changes
the pool of blood
the blonde
though it's pleasant enough strolling through woods not far from a home in the moonlight, the scent of tobacco in the air (I was there) it was 1954
or before
I could tell when I read them, the poets, the ones I understood, the ones who understood themselves, those who understood neither (I was one) it was
analog summer
when bees in bells hammered interiors
and warm days rang
we were importunate then
cultured from a line of stem cells traced back to the Doomsday Book
the rape in the fields
the yellow of Europe
revealed
analog hours
when fortunes are read
as we rush by torchlight into the night and the
clanging