I.
Sitting quiet in a bookstore...

The inane questions are wonderful.
"Why didn't Descartes consider that God could...

Kiwi sliced neat and juicy
opaque green beading up like strange fresh blood...

She is a flower
so romantically white, so sincerely...

Even in uncertainty
You fascinate. Especially then...

The church was arched
with white and gold, pillared with...

I'm thinking about... writing un-self-consciously...
feel...

Tonight, I miss you terribly.
Stupid little things...

My self blooms
along with the world...

I know that my certainties are
as capricious as the sky...

I cannot, I
cannot. Leave. I cannot...

Only
the warmth of your skin...