but the start of it.
July 04, 2007
I was waiting for space. & emptiness. & smallness.
But to my eyes everything was big & mine for the taking
Nevermind that my hands could actually grasp it, it always
Slipped from my fingers, greasy & hot,
ineffably not mine? Really
There always must be space. Or none at all.
The leg against the glass pane, breath forming fog.
The rocking gap of the table & floor.
Between wallet flaps.
Not poetry, the trembling of hands, the compulsion of the return,
second caramel frap, grande this time.
You live in the present w/your mind mired in the past.
Attempted stuttering freefalling. Form & shape maddening.