The August Project

Three wandering poems

How words graph the sky
and fall onto us. Fever dreams.
Doing, leaves, birds. This world.

— - —

The material empty lights through
in the running, still
or today, world of things.
Washed, curved.

— - —

Smiling in the haze of water moon.

Crows flying, white, dark.

The laughing unseen, bottom of your feet.



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