I do not own a desk. My work is built in the ether. Spread across beds and couches. On shabby cat clawed chairs. Swept into tidy piles of dusty spiders. Under sunlight, moonlight, lamp light. Between cracks in the grout and mildew. Inside machines and engines with rpm. Beside lovers and friends and enemies. Over asphalt and glass and gravel. Below the grass and dirt and slate mountains. Etched on subterranean rock with my thumbnail. Stained on the dome of the sky in my blood. Orbiting in the space between you and the universe. Winged and free like hawks and butterflies.