Simple duets of meaning and unmeaning. Buries us in stars.

The unnerving unbeginning of time. Only to tremble with belief in these lines.

To root for being… and always propelled by becoming.

In a city field, the summer all around me, I begin to recognize

Invisible minuets of insects, as I stand looking down the rail lines.

I send interstellar messages via the paper transistors of an origami radio.

Like the specter of tattoos
On the necks of ghosts,

Or the stars that blink telepathy along the curve
Of forever,

All is heeded on this walk,
Here and nowhere and everywhere,

The stars send out thoughts
Of blue birds on red branches or the first snow that
Kindles a city night,

In such poetic nonsense
Numbers give up their quantities,

This golden approach of mishaps.