Verse — kinetic poetry
Words, held loosely.
Four short poems about the things that don’t stay — an orchard, an attention span, a sky, a Tuesday. Nothing on this page has agreed to hold still. Touch it and find out.
- I Gravity — Windfall hung by habit; click a word and let it go
- II Magnet — Nearness reading, here, physically parts the text
- III Assembly — Constellation scattered light, until you arrive
- IV Erosion — Palimpsest edits itself down to what it means
Windfall
The apple hangs by habit, not permission.
The branch was never asked to keep it.
One evening in October, habit ends —
and what we called forever
lands quietly in the grass.
Click a word. Gravity remembers it.
Nearness
Come closer and the sentence flinches,
the way a name thins when it’s said too often,
the way a coastline edits itself around every tide.
To read this closely is to change it.
Nothing stays the shape you found it in.
Reading, here, is a kind of touching.
Constellation
Someone once looked up at scattered light
and called it a bear, a hunter, a spoon —
gave the accidental a name, and a story.
The stars never agreed to the shape.
They only happened to be seen, once, together.
Scroll. Let it arrive.
Palimpsest
I meant to remember the ordinary Tuesday,
light on the table, a radio half-heard,
your hand, doing nothing in particular.
now I keep only that I meant to.
that, and your hand. everything else, water.
Keep reading. Watch what survives.