I arrive each day
with belongings 

that make no sense:
a buzz saw for the garden,

irises to be planted
in the long grunt of winter,

and a tall clear glass 
with the bottom 

cut out. What we carry
becomes a type of memoir 

to hold a memory down. 
Most observations end up

reframed into true or false
questions, but the act of asking

means more than the result.
Alright, we are doing 

things half-right—if there’s
a book that records my 

mistakes, I hope you will have
time to eat its pages before 

I make my way 
to the heaven that’s been left

perfect enough to disrupt.