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                is it really worth me writing isn’t it
                just finding wisps and glimpses
                between which to find the outline
                of my wan and piquant poetic self

                no great find and no great journey
                wouldn’t I be better found lost in
                duty and service to the others
                I seek to identity myself sic from

                defined by all common denominator
                factored through by breath and mantra
                to find the being before the breath and
                after the sound or is there a self

                nevertheless to be recognised in the
                scrape of dried leaf under streetlight
                across the tarmac the first to herald
                autumn business and quietly passing cars

                after all?





autumn wormhole: under silent direction of architecture
being wormhole: Morning in a City, 1944
breath wormhole: Summertime, 1943
cars wormhole: along
identity & sound wormhole: … anymore
others & talking to myself wormhole: it is complete
passing wormhole: 1963
poetry wormhole: like butterflies on / buddleia
quiet wormhole: Sunday afternoon
seeing wormhole: wriving
streetlight wormhole: the / very gradual art of sitting
writing wormhole: that comicbookshop in dreams,