Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.

Strange things blow in through my window on the wings of the night wind and I don't worry about my destiny.

Poetry is a slipknot tightened around a time-beat of one thought, two thoughts, and a last interweaving thought there is not yet a number for.

Poetry is a tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes.

I take you and pile high the memories. Death will break her claws on some I keep.

Poetry is a mock of a cry at finding a million dollars and a mock of a laugh at losing it.

You remember some bedrooms you have slept in. There are bedrooms you like to remember and others you would like to forget.