Writing As Fast As Time

Writing as fast as time

Gives precedence

To empty rhyme


Time is much thicker, singular, sad

Something not to be had

But to be

And every writer tries it

The stream, the

Screaming fit


Gone already, as fruitless as

Catching your breath

It proceeds

What as formless as could be?

Or ‘free,’ we must grasp

As catching our breath

We gasp

But there back broke, flee

I never wrote


Recent Posts

See All

for nicolle

We listened and we heard in the space between us, a small garden with many new things: curving meridians and underworlds and iridescent dreams, shoulders to chest like a liturgy. One is when we are to


There are moments I remember that even the schools of crickets are multitudinous, and that waiting for the rain makes the sun too bright. I discover new shapes every day: green ones, gold ones, secret


Conversations with Jesus on the front porch. So many worries. That's true, he says. Everything moving by things I can't see. But perhaps, he says, you can. And under it all? You'll remember, he says.