A Lot Of Being A Poet Consists

She Had Her Reasons. Not That They Were The Same As Anybody Else's Reasons.

­do Back Exercises. Pain Is Distracting.

Well. Then We Had The Irises, Rising Beautiful And Cool On Their Tall Stalks, Like Blown Glass, Like Pastel Water Momentarily Frozen In A Splash, Light Blue, Light Mauve, And The Darker Ones, Velvet And Purple, Black Cat's Ears In The Sun, Indigo Shadow, And The Bleeding Hearts, So Female In Shape It Was A Surprise They'd Not Long Since Been Rooted Out. There Is Something Subversive About This Garden Of Serena's, A Sense Of Buried Things Bursting Upwards, Wordlessly, Into The Light, As If To Point, To Say: Whatever Is Silenced Will Clamor To Be Heard, Though Silently.

Time Is Not A Line But A Dimension, Like The Dimensions Of Space.

The Scroll Is Coming Back (twitter Is A Scroll.)