Postcard

Attention must be paid to the young girl's grace
The chemisty of desire will dissolve
The hate of every man of every race.


Why do i think that i can talk my way through life;
why do i think i,
why do i think?
Why
is this not a question?


The point of writing in a calender
For every trip around the sun
Each month each day
Evades the obvious monster
That hunts us all as prey.
Because rhetoric can only delay.
What comes around again
And ends too soon?
It's almost May
If Easter's passed.
We must have strayed
Or rolled the stone away