There is so much for one's attention.

after a week a reading,

I see pelicans in their hovery, undulating, connect-the-dots. They fly in elegant lines that trace the coast.

I see a white haired woman eating bread out of the bin at the grocery store.

I see swim flick of a fin on the horizon.

I see a spider.

The bank of dense and luxurious honeysuckle near the back door at work -- its fragrance is thick and radiant. Sparks flicker in my brain.

There is too much to take in. I must sleep and sleep for what feels like years.

we are not allowed to make pictures of ourselves

light, and ash, and bone

a fine casing like porcelain, enameled pelt

tether of coal, fire

breath and flesh, aspiration

into the dark recess, into stone

the word is a discrete text

a little map we crawl into