AMERICAN POEM


or it never really
stops00000000000merging traffic

not a fork in the creek

some kind of music, a glass book

no daughters, nor wolves

ideas

rushing over rocks

Tomorrow I've already done something I regret, he said

God, and nerves

baseball at midnight . . .

time is a possessive grammar

***
ripped off line 5 from Gabe Gudding's Rhode Island Notebook