above a small window with
a tiled sill, I pass through time
with poems, ultra violent tables
upon which to put your wishes
and your drinks, leaving rings
of inviolate evidence and question.
please, let the unseen speak,
there are stellar universes we
cannot certify, bright and interrogative,
blue and gone before words can
capture anything about them.
arrival is adjectival,
mountains and photographs,
proof that our passing-through
other lives is the only real currency
in this world, but that it can't be carried
is the thing causing our demise.