I. Fragments

I. Fragments

At first

the work feels accidental.

A sentence overheard

near the frozen food aisle.

A torn phrase

from a library book.

Someone laughing outside

your apartment window

at two in the morning.

You place these things together

without trust.

One line beside another.

A nail beside rain.

A hospital bracelet

inside a poem about summer.

Nothing fits yet.

Still, you continue.

You answer a fragment

with another fragment.

You build before understanding.

Then slowly

something begins collecting itself.

A rhythm.

A pressure in the language.

A direction you did not choose

but recognize.

Like walking through fog

and discovering

your body already knew

where the road bent.