Someday when the world is entirely covered with roads,

there won’t be any place left to visit—and therefore no reason to ever slow down.

Of all doomed friendships,

none is more tragic than that between a compulsive blurter and an obsessive brooder.

they can’t possibly be gathering
all on their own

the immaculate ignorance
of snow

we brought our words folded up like dangerous umbrellas.

all that’s left is location
location location

and the other foot, too, in this world, I am learning to love the dailyness of my walks.

when nearly everyone shared a knowledge of what the Bible said and an ignorance of what it meant.

I’d come in, sit down, and make myself uncomfortable.

and a face forgets how to go blank, trapped in a permanent facsimile.

the moss grows fat
on the milk of clouds

bare branches turn
green again