creek is parted by a hasty island, with
nothing to eat but mushrooms that leave a metallic taste, I found a circle scored in the mud.
could thrive on questions by shape
of things. But these stones are stoic, refusing to reply,
they cast memories other than themselves.
a great poet, if you're disillusioned
and drunk, Lew
Welch appeared to
say when I meet
him on the path a few years from now.