Tuesday, July 1, 2008

In the horse latitudes

my painted barque is, and only a recurring Aaron Copland melody companions me, adrift and yet unable to move; and venturing forth on the airs of thought--a dark night enters me--assuages little. Effortlessly/ so many ramble on, word upon word. Not this hermit. My sense is, though, this quiet, this space unfathomable to me, may be presaging a turn toward--toward what--something my mind has not defined yet. More later, if later comes. - Rho00105

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