a poem for today, 10 February 2012
[a syllable sorted sonnet of eight sentences and its image]
The position is ludicrous, the pleasure is momentary, the expense is damnable.
The sentence completes its signification only with its last term.
What could be more convincing, moreover, than the gesture of laying one's cards face up on the table?
What we’ve earned is the prerogative of going out with a whimper.
Others gather daily in centers set up to protect them.
Hate, as a relation to objects, is older then love.
Bad weather likes work days.
It ends with reliance on cosmic goodity.
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