Less than knowing.

Okay, the weird glow of the thing is that

Love is permanent,

And it will last forever. But we don’t. It’s up to us to bring Colored yarn and tie our letters to the

Rail before it goes out to sea.

In Torquay, in 1997, in a fog and drunk on cider

I saw France. I mean, I know I saw it—

Which somehow makes it less than having been real.

A pillar of salt.

Language must look back and

Miss the discipline of the type-

Writer.

There was a row you could watch

As it fell in on itself. A putty blue

Roller

Controlled everything—even the sea-

Foam of heaving errors, and a gull mis-

Taking 

            A period for its spot.