Leisure of the Sentence

The leisure of the sentence without subject,
the subject debilitated by the destruction of the principle verb,
successive images piled up with their implied turns,
twists of that thought which might be,
one sentence turned into another,
and the subject ceases, ceases to be
pink blossoms on a rainy day,
and left behind,
the mind drifts down other paths;
the pink finds itself,
sustained,
between commas without purpose,
with few questions to ask
but which way to go.

Ah, my dear pink, the only way is up.
And the phrase languishes into a sentiment;
a presentiment of what might have been
gives up the ghost and expires with the paragraph.

We await the resurrection
on other pages,
on other days,
on other times
suspended between commas and turned into places,
leisurely landscapes where one might sit
with James characters taking tea
and deploring J. A. Prufrock and T. S. E.

In a world without
the places of leisure,
shunned,
thrown into the streets,
the lounger must take up the sentence,
the succession,
the no-time time of words;
and couched among the metaphors,
find out what they're for,
for grazing,
the pastoral of the typewriter,
come home again.

Wherefore art thou, Sancho Panza?