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


sky & rock meet, the tedious

movement of clouds along

rail lines, electricity &

the random thought of a rundown,

tired spine,

reaching through fields

of trees, a touch of blood

in frost, light spokes of darkness,

space & an ashtray,

a shot pulled, spread out

against pasture, fire climbs

& eaves bend