And then I'm just going to read two more poems.
I think enough is enough.
And this one is called "The Hut."
And it really is, sort of in a sense,
a description of my sense of poetry and art, what it is.
"Up the hill is a hut made of sand
where two windows rhyme and the tiles
stay on because they are nailed to a dream.
The dreamer wonders, can this be mine?
The floor is solid and straight and is amber from sap.
The walls don't leak or let out heat
from gray embers in the grate.
This is the original home at the heart of brutalist design.
No storm can carry it--" sorry.
"No storm can slam its shape apart.
No thief can carry it off.
It dwells in ashen buildings where the present sleeps."