i keep on thinking,
and grasping,
and clawing for

words
and words
and words
upon more words
stacking on, or attacking
this stagnance of mind,

unintentionally filling
this nothing
with thoughts
of your memory:

a sunsetclad feather
locked in a safebox
in the corner of the basement
of a mossy cottage
resting on a flowered hill
in some faraway place
recurring
in my sleep's sleep.

(somewhere
i long to belong to
but may never reach.)

do you travel there, too?