I have shape-shifted in the last phrase we instantly entwine, are encumbered by, and it is the skin-stripped body posed as a runner, stared at by hundreds, stunned, the disjointed gasses and solids and metabolites, that find their seed nature in planets that are only beginning to die, or form. You have gotten this far without remembering a single feature, face twilight-drunk, reverberating. As shattered domes know very few names. As summer bears reaching, interpreting, withering. At the center of a molecule, a plantation burns straight down to the particle dream that squanders, lets roam its cyclical blade. I am what aggresses, emanates, signal-rich as refusal. Whichever bolt of silk you make yourself a word of, that it can drive blood around that room, and meet itself in conversationless equipoise. Otherwise, gravity, more gravity.

I search for you in a parabola of limbs, guilty and beyond naked but moving, shrinking, evading even their source. There we are in a common mist, all that will become of us. Before we begin, we have withered. I can see you only in ash, only after your face has scattered in wind. Pick me up by my name, what is left of it. Summer brings us to the sweetest of molecular levels. I remember you because you are hiding in this sequence, complacently bound. Here is a knife small enough to slice through memory. We will use it often. Speak only of dissemination. Where will it fall.