Our Names Were Made For

Finding Is Losing Something Else. I Think About, Perhaps Even Mourn, What I Lost To Find This

I Daydream About A High School Where Everybody Plays The Harmonica: The Students, The Teachers, The Principal, The Janitor And The Cook In The Cafeteria.

In A Cafe" I Watched A Man In A Cafe Fold A Slice Of Bread As If He Were Folding A Birth Certificate Or Looking At The Photograph Of A Dead Lover.

All Of Us Have A Place In History. Mine Is Clouds.

We Could See The Children's Toys Here And There, And We Saw A Game That The Children Had Made Themselves Out Of Dirt, Deer Antlers And Abalone Shells, But The Game Was So Strange That Only Children Could Tell What It Was. Perhaps It Wasn't A Game At All, Only The Grave Of A Game.