I hold ink in a strainer
wearing a rice paper robe
in time nothing is written
while stars steamroll pasts

I've condensed my thinking
into prized rocks of empty
you can fill them perhaps
with pity or awe or aww

Just as long as you fill them
even with some scarce thought
about good good morning
or a knowing **** smile

know one saw every thing
apart in a confusing manner
right when you said I know
about all of this mayhem too