what distance could we contrive

against the image of goldenshower

to the fallible mists purpling

untying knots of fountainspray

friezes, what would you and i

unravel after we read the gaping verb,

mean, if somehow the ridges of

an asterisk became a planet, if

yesterday grew into us, scaling

splendor back into its vertebrae,

off our overturned wrists like

burgeoning gardenias. Singular helix of

iced-over fountains/free from

spectators and ice. Give me

Reading's foliage/that collage

of sacrificial arteries, your eyelashes

brimming with winter, auburns

already were blood and bark

stifled sealed over pockets we

label a yellow bruise as "dying"

sprint down toward, if i can find
you there and we can make a blaze
the stars would notice, isn't that

climbing and interruption the purest
speck of desire, your saliva sparkling
on my cheek in silent shame,

the only necessary even-quiet,

ever-filtered gallow

fleeting, as premise, preface

artificial mapping of,

to reflection?