the missed spaces, the missed places, the missed times, the missed rhymes, the missed persons I could have been or will be, the fear that restricts me, the choices that elate me, the food that prolongs, the life that kills and opens and winds up and scares and tears and screws, inspires and heightens and pitches and rolls and drowns and crowns and takes hold of and molds and breaks and pours into and empties and burns.

and here we steal away together

recorded 15.1.18

The air is a cold knife on my skin. It does not cut, though I wish it did. So I might see the scene of warm blood steaming in a January night.

I offered the beggar an apple from my bag. He insisted that I take one for myself first. It is for luck he told me. I read these words now, his urging words, and I know, it is for survival.

recorded 5.2.18

recorded 21.12.17