I imagined a wounded person going into delirium. Outside and in there's battle. The wounded guy is a poet. There were probably "Futility" & "A Farewell To Arms" helping me along.

Rain-water. Light-feet. Life returns

in minute memoranda, ponds rise flooding,

empty ensilages open

and the slow-drift-winter edges over...


Over me the petals, dead or wasting,

flatter age with weak comparisons.


The rain's slow-water, light-feet,

under canvas, are the weather's, birds...


A worn phrase bludgeons over, over me


the light sheet falls, fists-fray, tents-fight.


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