I put my life down in these letters, tried to put the past to bed, they came back "Return to Sender" (never opened, never read) in the mailbox I retrieved them as the sun was sinking low over roads--all ofthem closed--so I had nowhere to go still I "should" grow, could have stood to know what I was turning to throw myself off course, where I'm just going around and around and around, and turning the compass, losing landmarks I found, creating art by committee, inhaling smog in the city again.

Again I put the stars above the dashboard, asphalt underneath the the wheel, and voices on the radio who all want to make a deal and as I'm shrugging off their offers there's a buzzing in my brain, a whispered waking dream where no one feels need to explain ideas less than concrete,where we unite and defeat all of the monsters we made for ourselves until we're going around and around and around, clutching the carousel, awash in the sound of a chorus that makes us and breaks us all down again.

Shifting sand through our hands, I still can't do the conversion of results out of plans, so I'm left stuck in recursion going around and around and around, clutching the carousel, awash in the sound of a chorus that makes us and breaks us down until we're going around and around and around dreaming of clear blue sky while we kiss underground until we make an excursion it's all a recursion again, again, again.