Days like leaves in the wind,
go blowing, drifting by.
sitting, unable to fill,
my day with meaning.
Too much pain,
can't think.
just trying--
I write a line,
the key says,'enter'.
enter ? where?
enter, what?
who is this? where did she come from?
My eyes ache. all over.
my hips -ache-
all over.
I have no desire to dwell on that.
Not, being able to create,
is a death for an artist.
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