A well-kept bike, a stack of poems in disarray. The books on the fridge. I'll get to them soon. After a walk and a few More months of procrastinating. I’ll write poems too. Small ones, by An open window. The moon like a dog licking a plate. Mirrors Don’t know left from right. A group of dusk is called a vanish. The arteries of stars Do they feel it too, The quiet celebrity of being alone?