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.