Don’t know. Seems my jeans tumbled on the sofa, one leg here, one leg there, wrinkling as I speak, bear more resemblance to truth than so much talk about pain and how terrible life is: in the city, in the suburbs, in the hawk’s nest. Words. Words. Words. Are they all the same? Their meaning, their order, their space? Is green “green” like in everybody’s everlasting valley or is “green I want you green” any different? Green fields, green grass, green money, green with envy: green with envy over the true poet’s green.

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