ignoring business, the public poet borrows
time with interest & vice versa, finds his
home in danger of repossession, no longer
worth the hoard of words he drew down against
its future value. He’s been protesting, too much,
against metaphor & not enough with simile.
There are no waves, pebbles or shore—just an
ever-lengthening slime-flow seeking a sea to
slither under where there is none. The Dyno-Rod
guy said this foundational seepage was a new form
of attack. So do our hastily assembled minutes end.