Bent and Beat

I am neither the sum nor the singular. I am nothing(ness). I am space and void and empty.

Spring in the high desert is a thing spread carelessly about, cast and hidden among the rocks and snow along the river's banks and mountain streams.

My appliances are beginning to know more people than me.

How I wish I were Romeo under your window, Rather than just me, cold and foolish, watching the moon slowly drop across the pane, seeing your face only in my imagination.

Her eyes are the deep brown of an exotic hardwood, a rare tree upon the rockiest shore of a distant land