When he’s alone too much, he starts to feel crowded. He can see some of himself attached to the bit of slug news posted on the ivy. A quiet enough man can find his own wind in the spaces between snowflakes, but a too quiet man finds a storm he cannot recognize as his own.

This man tends to sleep when things get too exciting. Revelations peel away without binding, so many ideas he sheds them to keep the new ones from holding him. How could death even get a grip?

It’s the answering that’s limited, prolific despite appearances, but scattered and almost repetitious, as if the turnip that fell off the truck had a cell phone and unlimited calling.

Lay the time you have out on a table. Fold yesterday under until today snaps taut. It’s not familiar with explaining itself.

It’s not any darker than he is. It says things that grew under rocks.

If he doesn’t take some darkness home with him, he’ll lose his way. There’s a fire there where he warms his thoughts although he might still appear to be a documentary.

What were you trying to do? someone asks, as if life too could be planned.