there is an art
to throwing things away
it dispels an attachment to objects
that would have otherwise
hove in on one’s ambit
to do and not have
or say
walk around the room
something splendid is hiding without flowers
not even the vacuum
is running
a rakehell is loose in the fabric
of unadorned walls
to find time
there
stopping
is what motion was made for
toss me aside
the seas will tremble
pinup girls will spend the night at home
and paper will gather
piling
on other paper
without somebody around
to notice
the words bled onto it
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