My face is my own, I thought.
But you have seen it
turn into a thousand years.
I watched you cry.

I have known stress as of late. It rents my slumber. It distracts my reading eye. I only want malty Oktoberfest and Godard. I settle for pizza. Compromise. Sated. Sad.

There's a scarred security in this collection. Friendships and warm contact are a currency in a vague, steeled world of toil. There's still something possibly American at play, a tattered optimism.

Time is ever elusive. There's a posture to be pursued, a wind-tousled hilltop tree or a violin concerto on an alarm clock radio. ( )