Nine?
I was just going to read a couple of real short things.
They're still sort of in-the-works.
And then after a few of these real short ones,
I'll read probably another five or six poems.
These I'm just trying on to see.
Some work from the last year or so I'm dealing with.
"The mood is a train.
The shoes are watches.
The man with clocks boards the train and evaporates.
My umbrella stared at the sky as the conversation died.
My friend drives off listening to White's voice,
Yellow's voice.
I made a choice which involve paradise, but paradise burned.
I went to my grandfather who was buried like a candle.
His stone was a second name.
A mockingbird which suddenly cries for you.
You are asleep.
What you hear is the early wind.
Wind from a hand.
You can't decide what to do.
Whether you are wounded.
Whether you are locked out.
Who is the loyal rain?
Where are you?"