Because no note can ring along such fine lines
And echo back the same trails
As if carried on dust-wings of embellished green hues.
And no note can fasten his lasting interest
To the routes and rocks which line every way.
Allover impoverished and absolutely rapt,
Sitting absent with two slowly rolling stones,
He'd write on and note the storm that lights his skeyes.
Deep in the heart of Texas,
Glowering over a Midwestern plain,
There are wild notes taking respite from a wild world.
He hears neither and seeks neither.
(Caught in some invisible seine drawing along the edges of time and light.)
No news is good news.
So it is generally believed.
All things must pass away.
