A Reason

That is why I am here not among the ibises. Why the permanent city parasol covers even me. It was the rains in the occult season. It was the snows on the lower slopes. It was water and cold in my mouth. A lack of shoes on what appeared to be cobbles which were still antique Well wild wild whatever in wild more silent blue the vase grips the stems petals fall the chrysanthemum darkens Sometimes this mustard feeling clutches me also. My sleep is reckoned in straws Yet I wake up and am followed into the street.