what we’re made of
we believe we’re made of rocks, or wood—
but it’s something else.
reality is amorphous
reality is amorphous;
slippery.
nobody can get a grip on it.
delete memory
you curate the surface of your life
weeding out what you don’t like
the library
some days feel old, like they’re reused
even though they’re unfolding as new ones.
i know what she wants
i know what she wants.
she’ll do anything to hang on to it.
wind up
the memory of action
freezes into a motionless instant