I am aware that I am losing particles, I thought I had already told you that. I feel them sliding down like small rivulets from my wagging head. All that is left are freckle spots clinging and scattered like a constellation God was too punched to do right. I am aware that I am losing time, losing space, losing fabric dynamos of my wonderings. Maybe that is why the sky dies down early in the fall. Maybe that is why the purple hills have dimmed themselves again, making headstones while the trains go by. Maybe that is why you keep losing your watch in the cottonwoods and tripping over soldiers growing birch trees in unmarked graves.
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