But that doesn’t make it more or less
Than the poetry of any other moment

When I see a silent leaf drifting through
An unseasonably warm December sky
It is no different than a mob of young sexpots
Tearing up a dance floor on a Friday night

Regret is a shortcut for the rich path of mystery

Its sugar has us dipping our tails
Into bottomless wells chasing
Our own stories over page after page scrolling. Ahead in a book that has yet to be written

Engage your ass as rudder not the carrot or the stick
Invite the ghost of radical uncertainty
Into your bungalow of shifting sand

Hitch a ride on the wave of destruction
Rejoice in the salty tears
Of unqualified compassion