how letters arrange themselves into words, how a poem is nothing but a collection of words that the breath makes eye contact with across a room full of other words that, in that moment, hold no meaning for me… but the words that make me inhale, or exhale, or stop breathing… that’s where the poem lives.

that’s where attention meets the thing that it has been seeking.

{📷 an ocean of stitches begin to swell around a small poem}