and, anyway, funny it lacks a line,
with all that there about counting them out)
I'm so damned dogged by much. The sober time
lurks, always, merely hours off, or less---
just words, or lack of words, and there it is.
How did I come to such a state as this?
Not good nor bad, but thinking makes it so.
The cotton from the cottonwoods flies down
but once a year, this very time, in Spring,
and sometimes, like this afternoon, it's not
a tickle---looking for a sec like snow,
or flashback to outside in childhood---
but sadly aimless. Dry. Floating. Like tears
that can't rain down, or wafting drops
not dropping. Dry. I'm dry, beside the lake.
They say that water, in your dreams, means life.
