what does one
do with the limited
number
of pages left?
exercise out of them
the last
remaining positions
on the
moment?
retaliate against
an imagined set
of abstract
wrongs?
let them flutter
without punctuation
in the afternoon
breeze?
leaving them
relatively
unsullied
by the unscrupulous
seduction
of tones?
...
the pages
fall away
and then
the year
fails
too...
