The callas on the inside knuckle of my middle finger sings like creaking floors when I write
Vapor trails waste in skies as we watch on our backs, still taked to the ground
I turn and I talk to the ground as I write
Models on paper bases
A city long flattened by the onslaught of now
The same people there, but the scale's not right
I make windows of tiny valves
Like God, make whatever comes to mind when I write
A man on the train to my right takes a double G&T at eleven twenty, and that's his right
I build him from straw when I write
I heard letters, horseback ride
And a suit on my hip as I write
Pluck feathers from pheasants asleep at roadsides
Dip tips in purple ink 'fore I write
Slow time, make my own ancient rite
Tell stories in between the spaces I write
Make space when I write
Explore space when I write
Take what I like from the space
And the state I create when I write
Pictures traced when I write
I wake when I write
I'm late when I'm right
When I'm right