lately all the words
(nearly self-forming at this juncture)
have been falling between the binding cracks
notebooks harbor huddling places
for lines washed into blues shivery-thin
and bent down, wine soaked corners.
I wrote about the letters running together
"Sincerely,"s bumping into "Love,"
the coincidence lets us round ourselves up.
We both ate too much that day.
My mouth is full enough to avoid the conversation all together
Instead I invite the furnace to be our mouths
or at least to gesture the way our mouths might.
It's good to stay warm.
You'll open to the momentary-ness of the words
(instead of loading them up with all that momentum)
start approaching your typewriter
like a finger trap
its keys teething down
pinching anachronisms into careless digits
sentimentalism enters most easily through the fingers.
Regrets can only be swung one way at a time.
regret is an odd number
maybe even prime.
with strange angles that gyrate
or any intent to condense.
Even when you consider all the factors
the numbers open wide
and laugh like unbalanced odds
One side of the metronome is alway hungry.
it's worth deliberating him down to one-sided echoes.
The air is electric with revolution
in both political and carousel forms.