To see you is to smell 
your wood and lead shavings  
that spill from the gray 
metal pencil sharpener 
nailed to the window sill 
in Mrs. Rote's classroom—
all these decades ago. Today, 
my mechanical one, empty, 

with no shopping in sight, 
I declare I hold you dear.

the falling paper flower

the plastic tree branch

the plight of reminiscing

the bureaucracy of kismet

the factories empty of logic

the bins to hold what’s done

the spaceship of butterflies

the video game of intimacy

the series premiere of strife

the discretion of the cosmos

the sharp wisdom of the young

O friend who reads in a cave w/o light

the comb detangling the scars

forward is not so far away