All day long a bird sings there, and a stray sheep drinks at the pond at times; the place is silent and aware, it has had its scenes, its joys and crimes, but that is its own affair.


I despise growth. The elongation of limbs, opinion, and poetic genre, it’s all on my list of “must avoid” along with poison ivy, fat-free starbucks, and people who use any abbreviation for the word “sketchy” (again, you know who you are).

The warm electric blanket of me-now is being slipped away, and it’s a frightening feeling. I was comfortable with being half formed.

Yesterday, I woke up restless. Yesterday, I woke up aware of the restlessness that has marooned itself to my shoulder, that has taken up residence in one small space in my brain, the disconcerted agitation that has probably been stirring for a while now. Yet what is it bending me towards?

You, always you, I suppose. The one thing that concocts a stillness (stillness is beauty, always) One fermentation of remedy and reason, the after-glow of climbing stairs and the linking thought from words to images, and all those things that you are. (you know: who you are) so I hardly have to tell you this: