I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.