I think I think the world of you.
Unpaid parking tickets resting
in a drift of melting snow.
I think I want you to get
what you think you want.
Every moment lined up
in a digital calendar
in someone else’s database.
I think I think I love you.
Analog clocks
clicking every second
overhead.
I want you to get
what you think you want.
‘Art is never completed;
only abandoned.’
I love you.
The sun comes up
six hours sooner
than it seems that it ought.
Worlds are visible
from orbit.
Perhaps I am no bigger than a pin-head and
no brighter than a firefly fluttering
in an infinite blackness dotted by
yellow lights, some that flicker and some
that seem to have burned forever and ever
Perhaps those lights are just like me
in the vast wide blackness that I flutter in;
perhaps they flutter about, too, hoping
to reach one another
Perhaps they are simply distant points
in space, flashing as a beacon so I may
know just how much of infinity I have
fluttered through
I have not fluttered through much
the sieve and the sand 