(6-20 December 1991) after John Burroughs

In our mad careers or depressed escapes, we careen obliviously or fearful along tunnels of temporary safety, narrow missions, walls of motion, in the rush hour on the Bayshore Freeway. In these momentous vaults we guide our trusts, missives to futures for which we won’t wait, we won’t be slowed, we won’t be stayed, but are are slowed, we are stayed. The accordion of death breathes and sings and in its wake we wait, we stay, unready to discover each other and ourselves.