Sometimes, I have ideas for poems, so I write them in a journal I have or save them all in one giant file on my computer. These are all little blurbs that might become the beginnings, middles, or ends of poems in the future, but for now, they are just some small-scale drafts waiting to become something. By the river that smokes is my heart. It is a rock sometimes that – It is – We are – waiting for the water to smooth us over and lightly handle edges.
I watched you lying on the couch, your body curved like the moon in the late sun, and you were only a trace of yourself. I thought, I see through you to the sheet, and you are turning clearer.
It’s when you touch the light shafts between the trees or are looking at the canyons between your knuckles, thinking on them, that I see it. You never stop, even though my bones get stuck sometimes and my eyes click when I blink.