Random things

A Self-Portrait in Late Autumn


... through that ever-
expanding interval, were never more
than these
late bees you'd
scribble: what hung, like sucklings, from the

fat,
dangling clusters; than these desolate, verb-
studded landscapes you'd
murmur, even
hiss into

some other, some ever else-
where's
ear.

Gustaf Sobin