A candy wrapper in a gutter. The end of the universe. Somehow, the same thing. A short piece about the things that outlast their own occasion.

There is the self who counts the spoons and rehearses the names of the dead. There is the self already at the door in her good coat. This piece lives in the room between them: the one that belongs to no one, the one that will be there after you leave.

"The year of the panini press was a year. It was a press year. A cheese year. A year that pressed and pressed again."

“To finish oneself is to become tedious…” A brief meditation on resisting completion and the absurd business of becoming.

"The origami children are gone." A father mourns what he shaped, a brother still tries to fold himself smaller, and a narrator who knows unfolding doesn’t erase the creases.

A recursive poem about birds, stones, and the inefficiency that might just save us. *This poem's visual structure is best read in desktop view.*