“ALL IN TIME

With something to do,
No wonder I sit at the typewriter.
Behind me, the clock has the
Monotonous voice of a parent.
Always it is something else I prefer.
The dictionary is a moving fanfare.
The compressed words of my life.
…
I walk down Longest Avenue holding my umbrella.
Information, merely information;
Everywhere bone sparkle,
Radials sifting deeper into ooze.
How I am coming apart.
How I scatter.
The air sparkles with my dust.
…
Sir William Herschel saw pinpoints
Of another kind of space
From which the milk of galaxies were poured,
As from a pitcher.
What is this universe that occupies my face?
I travel in an orderly erratic place.
I am a particle,
I am going toward something. I am complicated,
And yet, how simple is my verse.”