The poem mistaken for ink and paper:
I've mistook
Moby-Dick 
for ocean
and drowned.

I've mistook 
Travels in Arabia Deserta
for sand
and wasted.

But I'm yet to mistake
any writing for
a throbbing soul
or mere ink and paper.

Bricks are bricks
plus
something else
but all we have
are bricks.

Dear friend
I wish to build you
cathedrals.

Will you
with this ink and paper
help me lay the foundation?



Tombstoning:
Only suicides die
convinced
their last hour
is their last hour.

They are not us
leaping from
thundering water into
strangling air
rent with
patient
claws and jaws.

They alone have escaped 
the torrent of the strange mystery
we exhaust in—

the mystery
of not knowing
whether
we're alive
or dead.