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
rainfall

affordable

outside the reason
        of writing
is an escape
into poetry,
the continuum
of words joined
        without grammatical
        consistencies,
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