d.

I am here,

with wet socks and gum too sweet for my teeth.

A very tall man is sleeping in the arm chair I wanted to work in.

            I assume these inconsistent whistles are his making.

                             A sleepy sort of breathing.

The clock ticks softly

          and comfort cirlces the room.

I make a gum bubble.

I hear it pop and think about its sound and its departure.
       where does sound go?
       I would like to follow.    


                  I imagine a field above the clouds,
                  where grass grows out of sky instead of dirt.
                  it moves together like water in a basin
                  like suds in a sink...
                            ...birds for a kite; what a grand way to fly.


It's a library sort of stillness
implanting these untimely fancies.
    I had hoped it would provide
    an essay.