I am starting to become unsure about nonsense

I often think about the space between sounds—

A sack of gold coins

Lips wet on a whistle—


But I want solid loops of film

And everything in one room.

Why does the edge always fray?


When I’m verging on sleep

It snows and the world is like a room.

All the little people in cars on roads

Are going to different places

In the same place.