Lord, who may abide in your tent?
Who may dwell on your holy mountain?

- Psalm 15

For all the politics, the politics of start. For doubt the position of new. For sorrow the placard of now. For governance a set of raw teeth.

For new information nickels for the slot. For speaking a bran new set of cards. Poems like houses on a suburban street, many with titles like family names.

For old causes new causes. For time, speech. Anxiety, sleep. Truth, paper into paper.

Out of the misery a series of inventions of parts calibrated to transmit meaning from eye to eye. Just in the way of a dog to its bowl, moisture forming clouds.
 
For transmission, sleep. For love, wheels in fading sunlight, but somehow brighter for fading, more pointed in the way of spoke and exposed metal. Paint for the brush. Wind for sails at sea.