I love those most who make for themselves a pin-dot
to explore, move to the farthest edge, prattling on linoleum
floors.
Who make of themselves a monument and leap from their
balconies out of their lives, diving from spoons into china
teacups.
I love those, who, in one fabulous moment forget their
memories to feel, and with that, focus themselves into clean
blades, sloughing off their skin like snakes, leaving the sac in
some deranged closet, losing their identity, finding holes so
small to crawl through in the crooks of their pockets; they
confide without talking.
I love those most who are addicted to the shape of things,
architecture ideas for poems, the perfect place of things, where
you find it, where you put it, in its place.
What is created inside a building?
The hieroglyph scaffolding of the imagination scratched into
bone-white skull.
Those who can never quite draw the line but know how to walk
it, brick by brick how to build it, throwing away their rulers to
pursue their own measurements; those who know every angle, every
space, every perfect place, and sketch the pure figures
underneath their eyes.