we stand at the edge of drowning.
the water is small, familiar, and unknowingly
deep. silent fish slip through the night around us.

the view from what happens decides there’s a road. or a fly
on the wall of winter. all things to be done will be done
over. the dark in a dog set to howl.

snow is falling over the past. over the wild
cosmos garden. a silver light holds her feet above
the ground. how much of the moon has she swallowed?

a small horse leans into her juniper tree.
the man who never traveled peels himself from the wall.
a roof begins to leak. good fortune.
one silence holds shadow and sun.

halfway trying to learn a half-dead language

smudges of past unicycles

It’s come and won’t again.
She should get a journal,
gather the day on the end of her pen
like candy floss
and push it into paper
like a scar

Else she’ll be dead before she’s noticed
But she’s got a headache and didn’t we all just used to
walk and eat and talk and eat

Is life short or long?
She thinks she’ll let it go on
Like a game of scrabble

Counting ways to the number of kittens

I thread a thread of language through a wormhole routinely

The insistence of today

I may have watched too many crime shows
but now when I go out I look for cameras
and think about living in a Surveillance Society
and the life of all this tape before it gets recycled

“Sick Man Back to Yogya” is the graffiti I see scrawled on the side of a building on Gejayan St. I don’t know who Sick Man is or whether it is good that he is back in Yogyakarta, but I appreciate the effort of self-expression in this often reticent and self-censoring society.