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Well, about how old would you say? It ain’t about, the old man said, it’s either. Either eighty-three or eighty-four.
not knowin a thing ain’t never made it not so.
Black swan
A man gets older, he said, he finds they’s lots of things he can do jest as well without
Most ever man loves peace, he said, and none better than a old man.
what I want to know is did the boy know about it or not, and would he know was it his daddy?
their fingers laced with roots, at one with Tut and Agamemnon, with the seed and the unborn.
When we die we go where We were before birth
overcast sped the evening on.
the last light out of the gathering dusk.
the darkening headlands
the fleeing minions scattering their shadows
no vestige of that people remains. On the lips of the strange race that now dwells there their names are myth, legend, dust.
