one day I am going to write about what makes sense

sometimes it is like washing one’s face, bandaging a cut

making a valley and tunnel in a sandbox for a toy bulldozer

or sweeping the floor gets it, clearing out the shed

choosing a particular breaking strain

a rod and line and spinner

Sunlight on trees

branches twigs, no leaves

like water drops the passenger is space that

drops on the inward

like tossed peas

over the ice of rails

that the air widens into 

the zone that sterility keeps fecund

the carriage like an hourglass

straightened