These days even in
the desert one can't walk far before coming upon homes in which
is not welcome.
I stray from this neighborhood where, a few blocks away Bill Wordsworth,
and his sister,
Dorothy, embroidering her journals, live.
Coleridge frequently drops by to read his poems,
in front of the local
coffeehouse, mumbling old myths,
as if "bear(ing) witness
to these most ancient
and mysterious forms
of linguistic expression."
About half a mile away,
there's a small pond in which two old frogs croak.
shore, Basho sits in a hut built next to his
namesake tree watching
vintage samurai movies on cable TV. Some mornings, we
as Venus rises in the pond
the neighboring darkness