Untitled To The Decimal Point

The Personality Of A Paper Cup

What Light? Whose Tunnel? My End?

Dark Light

Us Autodidacts Know What Time It Is

I’m now too old to promise
Yet still too young to pretend
That the end of any given sentence
Suggests a full pardon, period.

Time is the true parenthetical
parading backwards in reticent
a second hand dream indebted
to the grief of an hourly wager

The odd odds of likeliness
In stopping the clock, to collect
just one moment won,
Is the sum of the cosmic lock
the house money of human

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I fret when I feelthe verse too rehearsedthe line too on timethe abstract too exact—or an interior rhyme…
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