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.