here is the title

it’s been a long time,             digital dust caught in my lungs,
i’ve heard the music,                  continuous, & there is a period of,
not only can i stand,          right hand leads while, can
the complex murmurers,          it isn’t the letter i, nor
along the path,                   is there a random phrase, a signal
of completion,          when the word, or is it, now i am

thinking about the strings attached
to the page, along the warm waters
of thought, & when the dog begins
to wine, abrupt while listening,
we hear the absolute in the shaking
off of wet fur, & another pen
tells a story, shared between one,
the eye in the see, we listen, of
course, the single drop in a


outside the reason
        of writing
is an escape
into poetry,
the continuum
of words joined
        without grammatical
the jarring affect
of forgetting to make sense,

i sit
in this tiny chair,
force words to combine,
allow space & location,

& you,

the vagrant on looker,
never even had a chance,

it's this,
this ending
that only makes
it affordable