lazy poetry (or) stone becomes sand (a poem)

we pass so many u-haul trucks

on our darkened streets

that I am filled with an overwhelming sense

of the constant ending and starting of the universe

it is the feeling of having such a strong emotion with no name

that the stale sunset's wake overcomes us and everything is poetry

u-haul trucks line the dark streets of my alma mater

separating students from the roads that brought them there

cycles cycles

bicycles

motorcycles

cidadas

and poetry no more has to rhyme

than rocks thrown through windows

are required to have notes

to explain themselves

sapir-whorf

star trek

"oowoop" are you okay?

I just made a strange sound

and I am concerned that everything is poetry

or something might not be

seen through windows

hands take bowls from cabinets

hands put bowls into cabinets

and the cabinets are not the same

but love for them remains