The ten old men of the middle benches are notably missing, their shouts not heard over the park. They may have come and gone.
Last night’s poem went on about bare thoughts, in flesh and blood of poets on a roll. And who were on a roll, except they who had come as chance events. And my poets are notoriously bucket occupied. Their buckets are full.
After buckets ships arrived to be broken.At the ship breaking yard the ship loses its shipness. It is so much steel , so much wood and so much glass fiber. The ship has kicked the bucket, so to speak. Home or ship,you have the bucket list. And the gray shades of elegiac Gray.
A Saturday riverbed market where buckets are sold in kilos. Where thieves sell a night’s dark deeds.
The riverbed lights fires for those who have fired their buckets. Their bones turn heaps of charcoal. When the rains bring the flood they join the high seas.