8/15 midnight

another day. dreaming
under the gun
i wrote once
a poem with that title
or a piece of prose  or something anyway
that was the phrase coming first

figures in the phrasing

inexorable pull of truth.
i am led
like a fool, like grass,
into and through.
by what, how, or why,
i do not know.

that paper.  Gloucester versus Lear,
the artist created by a brush -
a staged brush -
with madness,
versus
the man gone mad,

the freedom or running down
a hill in the dark blind

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8/15 noon

horror and remembrance.  this rehearsal
an of the past enough the past
passed.  yet we
hold close the old held horror
hoping (what is against hope?)
and
what would happen
if we
let it go?  let go?  what would be
here if horror were not?
so intimately woven into what? is?