Prose block 4

As we approach ancillary endings, who touches grin-flecked chairs, arranges them in triangular devil-may-care magnetisms, mysticisms, movable mantras (nightsweats). Cushions occupy non-alert specimins, tinge them with gold squeezed from underwater copper, twine, pinched coral. I walk away from the physical properties of bracelet links, a hypothermia. Stomach, or sandtrap? Conceptually near my vocal chords, one another, spaced, in-swept, frothed. Erasure is stopping-- I can see you in the front seat, cradling, laughing, twisting the dial of wind slipping through cracked glass, cavern, a kodachrome. The material of day, its stitches come loose & I have taken a corner of road, arrowed & angling it, so when you pass, incline, the urge, incipient as cloud cover, wriggles free.