Are we trying to reach each other?
We're trying to replace each other.
There's so much snow in my computer.
Asterisks demanding to be let out.
When I think of verbs, I want to forge filters.
Because Beethoven's late quartets are daunting.
Because there's so much to say in a crowded landscape.
This is what happens when you juxtapose yourself with reality.
Like driving trains to Iowa.
Like existing for the safety of others.
Do you have trouble finding the house?
I just follow the curtains.
The way theater looks on the page.
Building spheres to look like space.
How do you produce glass in a factory?
You depend on others to shatter plates.
Like making breakfast for someone you love?
Take twelve rectangles, place them next to each other, and that's how I feel about the Great Lakes.
Imagine your computer renting a room in a hotel.
Like exploring the world on a bicycle wheel.
Like Robert Frost, but not Robert Frost.
Like Robert Browning.
Or his wife.
She has a name.
How do you feel when the world exists too rapidly?
Do you run laps around museums?
I extend my hand to catch the wind.
Like arranging shelves in alphabetical order.
Like parenthetical gestures to someone you love.