Sonnet 38:
Damn, can’t complain, when my muse
left we had sales as a subject..

Next to nothing, also a white winged crossbill
went berserk — notes on wet bubbles — of even less immediate worth.

To invent takes in no mere idea of here and now
when everything is the right answer —

You yourself came up with this argument
— when once you breathe you pour into my verse

and we make contact writing for a time
to rehearse calling on you, hitting my numbers thanks to you.