I began to notice wind, I lay
on the floor. The words
didn’t come, but the sounds.
And there was a smell like crayons.

I thought about my mother,
as I often do. A song without words
seemed the simplest way to describe.

Sadness round at the hollow
of the throat—inside, and one good thing:
it makes you horny.

I’ve never believed there were
a thousand words for snow.
I heard a bird, wasting his song.
You see, I had changed my mind.