i would like to tell you about
when i realized that the weather
was never going to change here.

we were all outside painting clothing
like people used to do, back when
people did anything at all; you know
the times and dates and figures. seven
people walked past, wrinkling their
noses at aerosol particles of art
that drifted on spring winds towards
summer mornings when everything is
still cold from last night.
you know what i mean, right?

seven people for seven days of a
week, which was unusually variable
unlike most times when they are
stagnant, like lesson plans or pond
water until some geese land. and since
i’m getting ahead...

because they sit on top of the car repair
shops every morning, and they fly low
over busy streets only now reopened
after months of dust and fumes and
habitat reconstruction for hybrid automobiles.
but the geese don’t care because they are
static, on radio waves they tell us
forecasts for tomorrow and the day after

they are like those emails that people
tell you that they’ll send, but you never
get them, do you?
it’s not just you, it’s me.

this is very off topic, but i feel that
i have to tell you that i like your car.

now about the weather…

Right, so why doesn't fp upload documents with stanzas intact? It's getting sort of old.

C