I imagine a room with many shelves,upon which, upon entering,I know are stacked the relics of a past.The orange juice of labor.The stories of a life.They are tidied upin little slate cubbies and labelledand sorted bywhat’s inside. In this room compiled pages cataloguethese objectscrossed in time. [enter...

If fingers could growa hollow ring, in which to feed the stuff of marks,this arm would be a swipe away from spinning the pulp of paperinto snippets fit for life.

Winter has revealed his form again,stripped of his mid-year garb. Men, with eyes chapped open in unexpected bluster, couch their bodies in cotton and wool. Colored dabs sprinkle a landscape bleak.Lily and rose, even lavender. Boys dipped in mittens from head to toegather beneath a cluster of old kings,...

There is silencefor a second onlyuntil the sound of tonguestickles the air,and bags crinkle and solespad the distant thud of a train,grounded. They sit.No concern for the breathable,simply centered on an object to unite them.No talk of action, or fruitof implied labora mother’s loveeven plastic. [A...