I write small so you can’t hear me
I think things in sentences, which formulate
sometimes through nauseous thoughts
and I don’t take too kindly to insults,
even if I’m the one directing them at me.
I like the quietness of minds mixed with loud music,
I like the strokes of keyboards
and books you fall into
And when poems start with “and”
I like to believe I know what came before then.
And I feel motion in my life
and not in the sense that you are moving.
Just the opposite, you are fixed and so are the images
that surround you
like still frames, a short pause in–between clicks
stopping time and you are an overpass.
I am driving under it in the rain and it suspends
for only a moment.
I am this pause,
slow and curious.
I am wedged between the crack below the door
and that place in the carpet that contains the slight indentation
of where the door hangs.
Or the space between the wall and the bookshelf,
the crevices in the palm of your hand
that I trace with my fingertips.
The break in the song where there’s no music
and then it starts again.
And I close my eyes.
Life is just a succession of images
going through the motions.