At any moment, lines form all over.

I take a step, I shift my feet from one point to another. False start.

Between myself and my beloved

lies a third point, unseen.


The sky is milk.

I get in the car, and the old wanting takes over.


              Cover me, says the land.

              In order, say the vines.


We tie ourselves up in beauty and the control of beauty all the time.

Wanting everything to have a clear edge.


The crumpled hood of a car is an ineffective tool,

as is a crushed median, and desire acting as a verb.


Cars stack up on the highway. A low thought reaches 

out of me, bounces back and lands,


I know not where. False start. 

The life of the mind is underwhelming and circular.


           There is a hole I never knew I had, says the land.

           Fill it, says the body.