Something welled up
the grains of vanished oceans
beneath my palms
the digging was easy
I displaced time
by touching it
and the sides collapsed
and the shellbits
of longdead

Did he move upon the bike
somewhere in the city blocks
past my mad pedals and my
playing card clothespin motors
spoked and popping muted and
nearly angry at the

If I wrote to you
and gave you only that
of which my heart was made
the moon and sun
whose light in shade
would bright upon this
earth and

Saving them
like tiny pebbles
from the local beach
worn smooth by
ceaseless motion
and reflection,
by time and veneration,
the recollection of
our water and its
weight upon them

Memories
like stringy celluloid
from one whose date of
origination puts his
hands within the cogs
required to advancing film,
where anyThing plays with
chance and light,
and vision through

I remember when the
world about my head was
smaller than my
plastic khaki soldiers
and my bed,
and larger than
my city block of
pretty lawns and
tidy homes

All the doors and
the hallways he walks
are the same.
The doors are
almost never closed.
All of the people
behind the doors
are different,
though they are
all

O’ death’s sweet sleep hath to thine eyes been too
soon urged. That life owed you a fairer debt
and weeping sentiment more lengthy due,
apparently this truth be questioned