March: Year-day 63

        
                                       
                                        
March: Year-day 63

West Bend, the prison arrived at through years
of foolishness.  Like most, I too have bumbled
seriously, bent, broken off, split under
the freezing rains of desire/ as the trees,
so many of the trees, here have/ this Ash
Wednesday.  Had I not sought what I have I
would not have had to suffer as I right
now do, though my suffering invites laughs.

West Bend, insipid necessary prison,
gained through my constant buying of new cars,
my failure to use enough healthy reasons
for doing whatever sharpens my hours.
Denial by denial heals now this run
impresario's too familiar powers.
                                    
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