Your answer is no, but I write and write into it, much of the time, as if I were as a single father.
Assist father as writer.
Make lively and summer
white ocean no water, for one time.
No water, no rhythm.
Every power of wind and water gone.
The Earth still.
I don’t want to paint like painting or draw a book.
I want to write and say without crooked lines,
I’m like you now. I’ve lost my energy,
but I would like to still what I’ve become.
I’m not finished where
the mill is proud. I’m proud
a life, the pounding scream.
Maize is maize, maize and fruit,
and, my all gone away,
I shade the eggs and milk, and make right.
No one wants it as much as I do.
I come alive, I take nothing,
and still there to total height as it grands below.
I do not want to paint like.
I do not want what’s good.
I want what’s to the writing.
No woman, no life. Only the word.