there is sleep, and there is sleep.there are telephones, and there are telephones. there are places in the mind that cannot be penetrated by light nor fishhook nor army of feathers.whether or not there is cosmic interference. from this angle, the hexagon of dirt on which we stand is obscured by the shadow of a…

scene i: considers the truth of an exquisitely dismantled garden, the forbearance of a meteorite, and a radio—red—like a little red wagon. this may be its final transmission. we imagine, for a moment, that infinity is laughter; and laughter, infinity. scene ii: the speaker peers into a coffee cup. a galaxy; a mysterium. an unquantifiable…

a flock of morning pigeonsthe flutter of cosmic shirt tailsthere is a sense that we’re among bottle rocketsthe hours lingering in their nooks

the problem with endingsis the unuttered declaration that “all the flowers are dead”which is not to say we wouldn’t haveeaten them anywaynor swept them under the blanketsin the immeasurable tide between breakfast platesmore aplomb with magic than any of thisdead flowers, on the other hand,are a heretic of empty wine glassesa mayhem of butterflies running…