I am riding backward through Michigan toward Chicago.

I am thinking of a specific place in time.


A smashed caterpillar somehow on a windshield.


Somehow, otherhow.

I am always wishing you were here.


I am thinking of a general place in time.


I was watching a boot fill up with blood ? and I said nothing.

A school of geese: each one turns to a door when I touch your hand.


What can we say to the inside of a piano?


Can you play it with your teeth?

I am tying a typewriter to my leg with a heavy piece of thread.


Because I do not want to be dragged to the bottom.


I do not want a chain to drag me down.

Because I want to watch thousands of words spill out and up towards me.


I want to watch you laughing down from the pier.


I want to breathe fire only to see my reflection in your iris.

Your left iris. The one sculpted from a thousand tiny feathers.