All right.
For a while I was kind of obsessed
on the idea of walking poems, or thinking about walking,
or writing while walking.
And I'm going to just--
these are just two of those.
So this one's called Walk.
I went out and took a walk.
The streets were moist and misty with summer rain.
I gave a man with one leg a piece of blueberry pie.
He seemed very happy about it and so was I.
The walk was a poem.
A poem is an opera of the heart.
Write it and worry about what it means later.
That is, what does it mean to have a heart if you can't
feed someone with a cut of it.