Perfect molecules of plastic sheet the seas.

Carried by light, images remain while sensation is so evanescent as to be always beyond belief.

So much happiness is caged in language, ready to burst out anytime and fade.

Today could be described as a retired man humming tunelessly to himself.

I know you by your willingness.

But here I hold your dream in my poem.

Metaphor is ritual sacrifice. It kills the look-alike. No, metaphor is homeopathy.

Thus drivers inching southward will see the phalanx of birds heading west as one spontaneous gesture.

We sleep together in the dark but confuse light with love.

Poetry wants to make things mean more than they mean, says someone, as if we knew how much things meant, and in what unit of measure.