it is all waves.
sand crumbles in your fingers,
it is an odd thing; you are supposed to let it.
the trees are here. and so is the church and its gold.
i talked to a man this morning. older man, bald. he twitched.
i feel good and tired. good and tired.
there are cars and they move.
i think a story is happening somewhere over there.
a big story maybe, a good story.
but the birds chirp, rather they sing,
tying little knots on the trunk of the bruised tree.
a dog jumps and everything is still;
the dog wants to rest.
the wind keeps me alive. my heart needs to cool, but
rubber will always eat a little bit of the asphalt. pebbles
and ash.
but there is a reason you sleep.