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And then I'm just going
to read two more poems.

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I think enough is enough.

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And this one is
called "The Hut."

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And it really is,
sort of in a sense,

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a description of my sense of
poetry and art, what it is.

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"Up the hill is a
hut made of sand

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where two windows
rhyme and the tiles

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stay on because they
are nailed to a dream.

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The dreamer wonders,
can this be mine?

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The floor is solid and
straight and is amber from sap.

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The walls don't
leak or let out heat

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from gray embers in the grate.

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This is the original home at
the heart of brutalist design.

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No storm can carry it--" sorry.

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"No storm can slam
its shape apart.

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No thief can carry it off.

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It dwells in ashen buildings
where the present sleeps."

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