The true keeps calm biding its story

Machine generated contents note: Pale fingers

Sky speaks

My pleasures inventoried

The hill's grasses

A breeze

Walked barefoot

I was dragging a ladder

Only gray rocks with drifting mist

Basin of hills

The chainlink

Like water spiders

Any object inclines away

With practice

Just lean against the wallpaper

Nearness is

The vertebrae achieved

My stammering mind

Shaded but not rested

Just long enough

Here again is the counting of linoleum

Breadcrumbs

A pleasure to rub

My new skin

I saw the window

I might travel his death

My father's dying makes stairs

There are no words

Here I place

There are thoughts

Sieved the stillness

The driver wasn't

A gnat

I add brush-strokes

Though my first foray

It was once believed

The sun setting

An aimlessness

Attempting again proximity

There was no moment

Silently my father's dying

Wind is

The petals of poppies

Sullenly disposed

The coat-rack's narrow

Tasted a weedy

The rustle of a Sunday bundle

Fill a page

To set the table as if

I throw a stone into air

Not simply to lie on grass

Elaborately frilled edge

How to hold what remains

For months after his death.