An incomplete list of things taken lying down

There are certain things that, despite my knowing they exist, I cannot imagine—such as the beginning of a river.

Man can name his every animal. There is little use for a concept which cannot be named. Understanding is the flower of utterance.

To see is to leave, in fever, all we thought we shared behind. To see another in passing and not to follow for a time is leading our own leashes. See this trap is that our lives, when joined, read weak. But—each—we bottom into decapitation.

Typically what frightens me these days is also what grudges these trysts for coffee, and only in the wanderlust of the afternoon snooze does it begin to bite: What else will people do in the absence of easy good?

After all, whose blame do you belong to in your own recline? And me too. Why write a poem whose germ has an answer I could instead spend my time moving in amongst the world, finding out?

Each gentle pull to stay afloat comes costly. But poetry is a naïve machine, if not exactly a schematic for answering questions. The difference between a room full of people and a room filled with people is precisely slim to none. But what is an answer if not a retreat into the world we already know?

And how does healing happing, if not as a flower?