winter is coming, and i've been receiving chapbook after chapbook in the mail from prolific poets ranting from their mountain peaks. here, however, is silence. for a few months, my words have been scattered and useless--no threads are emerging in my usual haze of vision. tonight is no different. i watch cars pass below on 56th street and think of music and roads and time and heat, and i am lost in a cycle spinning downwards--someone is laughing at the wheel as it sparkles spinning. like a child, the sparkles look so pretty to me.
how lost in language do i have to become before language itself becomes something? is hesiod correct? does it all begin with chaos?
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