The drum in a dream pounds loud to the dreamer.
By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.
Poetry is a tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes.
You remember some bedrooms you have slept in. There are bedrooms you like to remember and others you would like to forget.
Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
People lie because they don't remember clear what they saw. People lie because they can't help making a story better than it was the way it happened.