the sun hits its
highest pitch and—ruthless—
holds the note
the sun hits its
highest pitch and—ruthless—
holds the note
it’s not
correction but the frame
I desire
boxes meant
to hide as much
as they save
directions never
taken—another tree
split in a storm
here you have a shelf
of empty journals—records
of my ambition
filling air with
numbers never speaking
to each other
sea pitching, ropes
coiled on the deck, circling
in their own dreams
hard to imagine
this bowl back to the artist
caressing clay
remembering
good jobs—sun the engine,
fatigue dreamed
these sounds from morning
windows—somewhere in this
scene where someone cries