Wide Open Spaces
In my heart I do not have
to not waste paper when I write to
you from the Big Sky down to a
pinpoint and then out
to circle the equator.
An egg-timer in your bedsit
trickles powdery sand, grain by
grain, like you and me on Porth
Mawr, the beach, touched by
ocean, stopwatch the waves.
In my heart it all happens at once.
Don’t know why I break it down.