Single, I’m walking down a quiet, dirt dark road. It says nothing. suppression. Framed by a piece of night. And, daringly ignoring, spitting out, tangerine seeds, Tangerine trees would spring instantaneously, up around me, even though fall is rising, But night is killing. suppression also. and love, too: It takes its own. Night loves without the growth. Night’s everything we call the moon. The moon’s so thought because we can’t see the bigger, night. and must have something.
13 December 1971