i inject my mind into my pen.
as the tip scraps along the surface,
the friction drains my sense, molecule by molecule,
until it is blank. not just a lack of ideas, but
no anything at all:

sans words, sans lines, sans spaces.

I threw a leaf off.
It waltzed itself in the air
without fear or despair.
The little green dancer dropped

dead slowly,
taking his time in the wind,
taking his pleasure with plastic bags and supermarket catalogues
admist this harsh and frosty gale.

My brave leaf seemed to ascend at times,
but mostly plummeting.
It might have reached near-mach 1 in a second,
but I could not be sure. (and I think it didn't know)

As I waved
(either to say "goodbye" or "come back")
I looked up and saw
on the balcony above me was a ***

of plant with other leaves, waiting.