. .	METAPHYSICS OF THE INTERIOR Chilled gray sky lowers             over the valley, and the mind feels shutdown, mildly suffers. Weather's not to be correllated             with the personal: this diamond intellect - anyone's - wakens flash! like that, whatever             light plays on it. Why then this imagining of lessened hearing, seeing? An inner scene             crowds characters onstage, who nag, rebut and disappear a moment. Must write a letter,             telephone, placate them, hunch over the desk indoors, keep after evasive             freedom not obtained by just this pursuit.                                   The view from the front window             is blocked by the same near-by pine, green a day or two ago. AT ROSITA CEMETERY Pine needles settle over the old stones, the nameless ones: incomplete families behind a picket fence, birthdate incised in marble. No death yet for a wife not visiting a husband's grave on Sunday. Here no chiselled deathdate for Floye Smith, who, speechless, strapped down, died March 6, 1987, in a nursing home, her ashes not here beside her suicide son's despite her carved name waiting—               So much for plans.                                                 So do I want a northerly corner here between a cracked red sandstone marker, weather-shattered, and the Adams child? It's not important, just somewhere someone might visit.                                                 I place two fallen pine branches and five pine cones at Floye's blank headstone, having forgotten to bring flowers. Copyright © 2004 by Jane Augustine Source: Jane Augustine: Arbor Vitae Marsh Hawk Press New York Copyright © 2002, Jane Augustine This is a cooperative presentation by The Institute of Broken and Reduced Languages And Light and Dust Anthology of Poetry.	..