Jay Besemer



i’m not sure what i’m looking at.

i like the way things happen in the spaces.

& sometimes, that same rain comes a little bit willingly.

when there are onions a man can stand in the rows & look at his knees behind the points.

sloppy wax emerald arm, yellow fingers with brown nails.

it’s easy to forget this, the howl of the sun on the back & the earth.

make it count.

someone is a speaking tube or a wheel.

someone lights lamps.

what i’m looking at expands into a warm circle.

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