What’s done 
is done 
and what’s 
over is
over there’s 
too much 
living left 
to do 

My one thing 
to do is
write not love 
but love I
do that too 
not sing but 
songs I sing 
not run for 
stroll will do 
mostly I sit
and quietly wander 
watching the rest

Oh when hope 
spoils and turns 
into slimy clumps 
of something once 
had been sweet
how could such 
a thing happen 
to something pure 
I guess even 
those things clear
can turn cloudy 
if left alone 
for too long 

Is it wind
window or rattle 
that keeps knocking 
sometimes it’s rain
or even sleet 
that keeps me 
awake but it
is never snow 
for snow knows
that sleep betters
under the blanket 
of winter white

The day starts 
at my door 
its pale light 
slowly sheds white 
and turns blue 
the bathroom window 
faces due east 
and the day
breaks first there
its early azure