Read old poets right old poems. That’s the way of it. When I was a baby bard, I tried out Romantic phrases w/ anon and blithe & wrenched wretched syntax. Goofy shit, but no practice is wasted. Rumi is still telling us to take off the mask, ol’ Bill Billiams the doctor man must always tell us the young sycamore, on & on like famine & war, and the teams head brass and that goddamned yellow square of charlock narrowed and narrowed. Mohamad Mossadegh sleeps in his living room on the isle of Avalon. Sunday night’s blizzard is already drifts eaten away. Some of it doesn’t stay. And then it will again.