XVIII.

Sometimes

I am perfect

The spindle

of my machine

ticks like

meant- to- be

making material

to weave with.

Sometimes

I can sustain

All things like

a delta,

a bleeding river

of sweetened soil.

Sometimes

I am nothing

The tiny spaces

between atoms

expanding

until my matter

dwindles

to a few spots

of ember

And sometimes

I am everything

the wind, steam

and brick, raw

and domestic

the dirt and drapes

constant and

inconsistent

and everything

sometimes

is true.