a dull color of sleet on my face
a man needs a collection of tools
hands creep their time, it is always now
grilled octopus retsina and cheese
i met an old lady at the subterranean bar
it’s all there perfect with you and your friends
memory is a fragile sense in modern times
mist of morning dark hot coffee
rainbow westward ache of color
the sacred heart of all i am
the sound it is which lulls the thought
they would just bubble up
we think differently with our hands writing with a pen
words are specific delimiters in their snake trail
working through the fog
the rumbling thunder
the insects are banished from my sheltered cave
the dime of death short stops us all
the fug of tobacco tastes the room
i’ve come to the time of departure
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torusflex
string figures and poetry
