Sometimes I try to make poetry but mostly I try to earn a living. There's something still living in every urn, I am sure of it. The ash moves around inside the vase like the magnetic filings that make the moustache of Wooly Willy. Maybe a new face counts as reincarnation. The wand says, "I'll be your ostrich, if you'll be my swan." In this life, what did I do wrong? I think my heart is a magnet too. It attracts anything that attracts joy like the summer grasses the swans track through. OMG, how in love I am with joy and with yours—how I know that adding to it would only take it further off course, off its precarious center, so for once, I won't touch it. I will stand wand-length away—let it glide stupidly on its weightless line, without me.