It whizzes in the atom, where you cannot know both energy and position, so are lost in that tiny space.
It is in music.
My eyelids burn red, the red of light that aches to get through, but I must think.
that clutter my desk, my drawers(comma) can
I do it anyway.
It is in days like this(comma) I think of Macbeth.
Art turns away from me.
But that is not my first love, nor even my last.
I love thunderstorms and cartwheels and fruit and poetry and watching the clouds play shadow-puppet upon the sky.