pleasant paper, sketchbooks. pretty
to feel, just the right amount of rough
to the touch – for writing, they
always give you the worst, the value
meal deal of paper, your ink runs
through and the poems get to know
each other at the in-between space.




curled over the wall, slick
with paint, lines surgical
and precise, tracking epithets
of deeds and at least one life.

your sighs were waiting
in counter-top novels, point
dead riverbeds where we
followed footfalls, each
an end, nothing but gratitude
overflowing and finding
a bed covered in books.

words are theories in forgettable lands
you drew pictures all about memory