1/31/16: Others Commute

in rushing rooms

alone—yesterday’s scene

playing outside

1/30/16: Imagining

the ceiling calls

only in echo—”This,”

it says, “is how high”

heart’s dance,

stepping to rhythms laid

by time itself

eyedropper of

ink in water—a blossom

of violets

reaching the floor,

crumbs from last night…

you were saying?

were days like petals

we might circle and circle

forgetting the sum

thinking of bees this

winter—cold their constant

rubbing