Let me die in this moment,
…always thinking of her
…so that I may always…

...worthless—

Position and Place,
Time, its pockets, and Surroundings,..
Self and Others…
My epitaph:

And perhaps it should be now
–the end—chore o' chore.
I was clever but not timed.

*

And so paper exists
for…
Scarcely a tangent,..
one thought to another.

Or
for what we never say:
..."So we're taking this home?"

*

If I could,
I would tell her this, a poem:
"Probably; is never"

She will call the moment–
this…beauté sans égal,
more than the color of sound–
I stop caring,…which…

*

Not that I should live my own;..
It can only pertain to one thing;..
and Assuming them both,..
Then Not...and (can) never be...
Is always true...

—nothing 'til next.