The Neverending Shredding Project

Happens even on days when it is sunny, peeling
away from what is evenly distributed & what is not.
There are drawers which hold folders that mostly
hang in darkness. In exchange for depressed teeth
make me a plea long enough for this to develop.
In any event, there are more piles to pull from
& when you can't be there it can happen in closets
or quietly on the floor & will happen even after you
don't care anymore about blowing smoke out the window.
Or it happens quickly after you open your eyes & decide
that you could have been anywhere & the pillows lie
excommunicated for doing their job & the phone
without a message or with one, which reads "forget
about metaphor & feel the floor between your toes."
It is also sometimes a pile of notes, of papers with words
& papers without & papers with one long line drawn across
or it is my bar stool leaning into yours. To say that it ends
in pieces is obvious, curled & fluffed through whatever invisible
chamber exists in there, eating whatever it is that is placed
to its mouth. Always though, we can politely dispose of it,
like the document I made of what I was thinking as you
moved the hair from my face. The potential is endless & always
quite a burden: stepping over snow, getting out of cabs,
getting out of buses. Or it is my imagination, unruly & long
& only coming out in fragments or my letters,
never more than single sentences.