#1994.

W h y w o u l d i t b e ?

I t i s n o t r e a l . . .

H e i s n o t r e a l . . .

T h e v o i c e s a r e n o t r e a l . . .

W e

A r e

N o t

R e a l

His fingers—already fixed at his throat—tighten. Not consciously. Not with intent. A reflex born of terror, as if he's trying to strangle the voice out of himself, crush the sound before it can escape his skin.

Maxwell’s in Hoboken, NJ on February 26, 1994

Thanks to Terin Joseph on FB

What can I say that I have not said before?

So I’ll say it again.

The leaf has a song in it.

Stone is the face of patience.

Inside the river there is an unfinishable story

and you are somewhere in it

and it will never end until all ends.

Take your busy heart to the art museum and the

chamber of commerce

but take it also to the forest.

The song you heard singing in the leaf when you

were a child

is singing still.

I am of years lived, so far, seventy-four,

and the leaf is singing still...!!