POEM ENDING WITH WHAT I JUST ATE record the seasons record the trace of light across your thoughts record the way a face becomes a fact record breakfast the ditches a doorway record what you have time for don't worry about the excluded mass of sensations objects memories feelings flying digging swimming creatures some unmentioned star some forgotten act this mass is in its own unsaid poem so abstract that it only touches the edge of your thoughts as you pick up your bowl of oatmeal
next poem >>