Consider Incompleteness As A Verb.

Meanwhile Music Pounded / Across Hearts Opening Every Valve To The Desperate Drama Of Being / A Self In A Song.

To Be Running Breathlessly, But Not Yet Arrived, Is Itself Delightful, A Suspended Moment Of Living Hope.

Those Nights Lying Alone Are Not Discontinuous With This Cold Hectic Dawn. It Is Who I Am.

There Are Different Gradations Of Personhood In Different Poems. Some Of Them Seem Far Away From Me And Some Up Close, And The Up-close Ones Generally Don't Say What I Want Them To Say. And That's True Of The Persona In The Poem Who's Lamenting This As A Fact Of A Certain Stage Of Life. But It's Also True Of Me As Me.

Do You Remember When They Taught Cursive In Schools? I Think They Don't Anymore. But I Still Enjoy It - Just The Physical Act And All The - The Whole Business Of Making A Thing Out Of Language.