no title yet

just when i am hitting a wall and can't think of anything to write about, union block provides. i love this little coffee shop. here is a very rough poem, fruits of this morning's latte. it needs work, like everything does, but i am happy with where it is going.


no title yet

there should be no
to-go cups,
alarm clocks
clocks
or calendars.

we don't need
more reminders

that time is
running
through our hands
like molecules
like grains
like drops
that stick
between our fingers,
grate there
wait there for
us to reach,
and then flee.

we feel it in
our bones,
in the ache
between our
third and fourth
rib. Taste it
on the edge
of the breath
we never quite
catch. Hear it
in the
hollow echo
of our voice,
too frail
to be carried--
that small white flag,
against the rush
and running
torrent.

we cannot take
ten, or even
twenty to
sit with a cup
of coffee,
cup and saucer,

to watch the wind,
the downfall
of one particular
leaf.

we don't need
another reason

to move on.

we are searching
for an excuse
to stay.


b