A bird flies from your poem to my poem.

It is looking for the idea of sky

which is the only thing
above my house.

How beautiful, the idea.

I like to think the winds blowing into my heart
come from somewhere

come from your heart.

That these ideas extend
like a sea of innocent grass

where our ambitions sprint
massively like horses.

I have great ambitions
when it comes

to the idea of home,
which is the direction my ugliness

always points in,

which is my excuse
for everything.

Maybe you can understand.

I like to think these things.
I do not know.

For all I know,

the sky
is a stone

tied to the very bottom
of the idea of flight.