You ring the bell of the house next door.White shells and weeds lay like rags along the trail.
If the skyline belongs to no one, perhaps there are many lines,each drawn backward from point B to A,trickling the harmony of loose threads.
How light is capable of haunting –firmaments, shadowplays, and words to be etchedon the surfaces that join us.
This morning, a dream you told me,of jumping into a bright river:imagine beginning your life with another word.