thursday, january 14

then again, maybe writing is just
about exactly like mowing the lawn
or painting a wall
or splitting wood in the summer
when last winter's air is a fading
memory and next winter's is barely
yet a premonition

maybe all it ever is
whatever it is
is the making of effort
across time

foredoomed, certainly
for of all things that accumulate
only entropy has any lease on the future
but cumulative, anyhow, on the scale of a life
the way brushstrokes and cordwood
are cumulative, on the scale of a season