The desk,
and the second floor window
with the view of the people
passing by, passing by,
brought rain,
and words,
and the patent passage of time.

I burned through the pages
Of my childhood dreams
Out on the rusted wheelbarrow

Little red squares
With little white letters
Begging the question
With every approach,
We op?

Muddled thoughts
Muddled pages--
Winter sky
In this Texas heat--
The leaves are blooming
Or perhaps they've just
Forgotten how to fall--

I've become accustomed
To the way the water tastes,
The open sky,
And the wind pulling loose my hair,
But not the distance.
No, not the distance.

I wonder if you made it out of the fog.
I am still waiting for your words.
Keep running through Rhode Island.
Bring me the beauty of the world.

You are forever nostalgic
For your past future self.
This is not where you were going.
Never how you thought you'd end up.