Laying plastered in the sunshine
Like stucco the memories
A bit wheat colored like
Wheat colored grass
By a train station
Where the wind
Rusticating in the sunshine
And prostrating
The illusion of procession
Laying down an iron line
Clock wound nerves
Meld into the space
Of action
Keeping catatonic
Any actor from arising
Something chronic
Oh… ouh… Oh
On the Parapet
Oh… ouh… Oh
On the Parapet
Some have accused
Of regret
The dreamers
They would
rather have them
As confidants and schemers
Ah to build is sweet
But is there nothing to repair
And I dare say the tracks that greet
Me on a Moscow morning
With dewy tears of bright tomorrow’s wishful air
More like despair
All the little sparrows
Drink the dew
And in the narrows
Of every avenue
The indie yard brigade
Will make bread yet
From seeds of wheat
That dreams have set
In minds of those who meet
The stucco memories
And lay rusticating by the tracks to outpace
The useless hurries
To build in time to finish race
Is best done at wheat’s sweet golden time
Growing of its own accord
Doesn’t trouble overmuch with plot and word
No accounting no how shall I afford
Sucrease isn’t business but life’s way
Recognizing…
Thus clothes the earth in grain
Again…. Again….Again…
