#414 Untitled

In the middle was Vasques himself; flanking him in a definite,
then indefinite,

ranking by category were the other human souls that daily come together here as
one body to accomplish small tasks whose ultimate objective is the secret of the Gods.

We feel a latent irritation that even
seems to imbue the inorganic air around us.

Gone is the memory of the stories we heard as children,
now so much seaweed; still to come is the tenderness of future skies,
a breeze in which imprecision slowly opens into stars.


I fashion complete sentences with not a word out of place; detailed dramatic plots unroll in
my mind; I sense the verbal and metrical cadence of great poems in each and every word
and a great enthusiasm follows me like an invisible slave in the shadows.

Time,
like a wagon at the close of day,
creakingly returns through the shadows of my thoughts.

We're not kind or charitable.

—Charles Robert Anon, Drafts from Ibis Press