I blame the currents for why I pull pause out of a bathtub of ink.

Yes most certainly,

fault can be found in the drops of breath beating on the wings of a butterfly, or the eye lashes of a homeless man,

look there the honey bee flying beneath a strand of web,

and see how the grass between my fingers

squeaks like a stick in a small child’s hand 

tapping off diamonds in a chain link fence.

In the morning I lick honeycomb,

pray for discernment

see what sticks

and then 

perhaps

I write…