I was going to write until it felt like the truth.

skim page, skim milk, skip
rocks and roll
into the water.

It's not sinking. It's a race.

This dance, this ricochet
roundabout remember.

Oh yes, the blinds flutter
like the wings of
a perched bird,

unable to decide where
it's off to.

Open them and we're in
the trees again,
closed November,

awake and asleep, too
black and white, too
beginning and end,

take a bite, right?

Nothing's cut and dry.
Dreams are proof of that.

Imagination doesn't follow
your rules.

The great empty plane
of this world. I'm
kicking up dust

just because I can, screaming
at the blank black sky
to show me a star

through all this smog,

meet the edge of the
world like I
always promised.