I begin,
scrambled words on a page, free forming
moving pen before I think
what's happening to me?
The pen finds out before I can know
I wrote it for him, that book of nonsense
It is my life incorrectly remembered and subjectified.
My life as if it could be put in a pocket, finite
Life as much as it is finite, is infinite
Each second stretching inward toward eternity
while stretching outwards toward
the end.