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.