Love to write

There is always time in the morning
between galaxies
and orange juice. 
 
If you had a jar with a lid
you would try to save it, 
give it to the girl 
with the pressed lips 

I am mostly 
one for knots, broken strings, 
holding things I 
should’ve let off 
long ago. 

I am not a poet. 
I still get lost looking 
for home 
and don’t mind much either.

This morning the sun,
beyond the birch grove, 
ripened like a summer peach. 

The river rushed to the ocean. 
My body was a core of closet dust. 

This morning dark stones on a ledge