I consider life as a fill-in-the-blanks sonnet.
A cloud moves across the sun: such drama:
I think that would be easy, but it isn’’t,
mind like a horizon of travel.
It requires a lot of thought and many hours,
haiku-like, shift-of-perception revisions
like an antihistamine,
the eyes of consecutive years to pull off walks,
lives in gold-infused coffee shops
in December, people drifting around
in cages of falling snow.
Some days my whole
collection of light hours are wine-shot &
from one limbo to another.
The volume that contains
my work at the moment
is the whole freaking world.