We all have reasons for moving. I move to keep things whole.

She stood beside me for years, or was it a moment? I cannot remember. Maybe I loved her, maybe I didn't. There was a house, and then no house. There were trees, but none remain. When no one remembers, what is there? You, whose moments are gone, who drift like smoke in the afterlife, tell me something, tell me anything.

In a field I am the absence of field.That is always the case. Wherever I am, I am what is missing. When I walk I part the air and always the air moves in to fill the space where my body has been. We all have reasons for moving. I move to keep things whole.

Even this late it happens: the coming of love, the coming of light.

The number of people writing poems is vast, and their reasons for doing so are many, that much can be surmised from the stacks of submissions.

To open the dictionary of the Beyond and discover what one suspected, that the only word in it is nothing.

From the reader's view, a poem is more demanding than prose.