I don't know why things happen.
I think you can pretend you do.
Some things annoy me, and I think about why.
What it all means.
I think about salmon, and the idea of being cool, and what a fire means.
What does it mean when he takes off his shoes, his socks?
What does it mean when the unread books pile up, but I write four poems?
It takes something to be real.
Something to be grounded.
Here comes gravity,
the big stupid apple ready to hit us all over the head.