sadly hung over the primate's back like a bag of stones, rachmaninoff through the night, and a vision of a book.

a book we will make to show the way of peace and music.  and softly it was repeated as of yore, no one understands like you do, and that is all.  and bitter come the tears to remind me, i am not incapable of feeling, when so much leaves me dead.  and a book of my father's poems for you, in the darkness, when i will hold you in my mind, in digital time.  words inked on paper and tears, and one silly thing i said, i did not have to say, but did, so you might know, so it might be clear in our delicate way, with years set forth like cards, more elaborate garlands for your altar, there is only one love, and all the others a struggle.  there need only be one, one love, if to undersrtand is to love, and to ask little to love.  in years i will give you so much more.

and the words you heard from me of utopia as israel screamed . . . of peace