put on a record. the rain won’t last
longer than the emptying of the clouds were
I to confess the things I threw away in the sea
(the murder weapon words in a bottle)
I won’t give this poem a name it would be like
subtitling the days and I: I’m just like
water (taking the shape of the places it floods)
let me say it again (for those who just now
have put on this poem:) in mother’s fruit basket
the seasons follow each other and the record
was so old so old that at
a certain pointso old so old that at a
certain pointso old so old that at a certain
pointso old so old tha