Walking through the graveyard  with everyone and poetry  thought comes Automatic Intimate Impelling  Then a bee… Unmarked by paths The cluster Of grasses Some railing voice Another’s Message To climb Home You reach the wall Stop And speak Affeared  Too late has Meaning now

Sour Dough

Ordering bread and coffee Baked by desire It’s grinding repetition Skin not an echo But that glistening same The bitter Buddha kneaded here Could not be loved Without lust Wisdom’s yeast Force fatale Yes Yes Concentration short Yes Pain overwhelms Yet where no excess and Eager expectation ends So ? It is imagination that arises.