Sick in the overhead

Kristen has come away from the flu shot with what looks like the flu. Hopefully a very small version. She is in bed. I gave her the flu for her birthday. We ate Oysters.

I’ve been starting a few book length poems. This one is not even a page yet. Nor do I think it has an idea yet.

Notes on Solitude

Traverse of land. Slight draw formed ice—frost—parade.

Nothing can be trampled. There are books in characters’
eyelets. The pages in eyelets, the pages in parade before
there were times left to risk blessing the frosted ground.

There are pages in mines, waiting to erupt, task forward.

Here are hands I’ve been working on for some time.

A patch of grass sewn to your shirt, turn to me. Now look to me.

There is only waiting in the pages crest, the cloud formed
because we created steam with our bodies, our babies.

The soft tuft of of an s. Sweater pill in silence abound.
I want to say less is the man I could become potentially.

Listen to a crackle. Think about what has happened to you.
Your ears were made for backed mammals, the hills,
the ones who have air frozen over their eyes.

Mapa Mundi

I am going to try to write/draw a collection of maps with text. I would like to consider them all mapa mundi, some sort of map of the world. I will post the text as appears on page, but without any drawings that may happen with the text.