Collection

O the crescent flows muddy red A bend of arterial dimensions

Full to rim and over- Filled with sins of fathers

Blowing hard without charts now Improvised in the tradition

Of nontradition. Stiff In a median overgrown, afloat

With other stiffs, rotting Without turning to dust - yeah

The tide is dust anyway Risen to the sky, wet and dry

You can blame no one You can blame me