Days go by when I do nothing but underline the damp edge of myself.
I do not believe in the beauty of falling.
Without you my air tastes like nothing. For you I hold my breath.
If I could/bind myself to this moment, to the slow//snare of its scent/what would it matter if I became//just the flutter of page/in a text someone turns//to examine me/in the wrong color?
There’s plenty that poetry cannot do. But the miracle, of course, is how much it can do, how much it does do.