The light is still on,
bright, as the evening sets— -on an on,
the day keeps going, like salmon that swim upstream,
I wanna go down into the shores of labour and solitude—
rise like steam or arms in need of movement, I find it all benign.
I come out as if a specimen from a beaker—
absolutely futile directions, fatalistic and all languid
like crows floating on to you—flying and fading
I become a lender on a bus wondering through the city like a
pelican gauging the temperature of water—
the hummingbird
doesn’t wait for the buzz—
the skies are blue just because—and all logic aside,
I know I’m going to have fun:
on these hills, through these streets, also those narrow windmills,
it’s so sweet & I/I/I
manage to feel it all.