to a point. ouch. the numbers
assume importance. demand order.
‘I’ll launder you ‘til you cry’
said mud, something
like a tuning fork.
planets make their way to the page,
musty at sleep and new positions.
arrange your stacks, your silence
imagines itself a secret call.
every object I greet, suddenly
flaring at the tips. the pain an unmonied gulf,
allowable descent. at each moment, I can take you
or leave you. if only I will, dear reality.
