translation / interspersion

What causes the plumpness of light in darkness? A fabric half-seen. I swim through its fibrous examples, even-tided as the roads that curve. Carves "us" from the slow-to-rise day, the seasons I grew well in.


A tear-shaped flame channeled through your limbs, my limbs is what it feels like when we stop. Start? A charged instant, climbing from my orb to yours, a singular moon somewhere on your body. And this is the apex, the infusion, where I am cauterized to something-- found objects, human, & receivable, lungs or the viral outsweep.


In fire to be on fire. Closed-throated. The context cradles us, balances our interiority. I learn by stalling-- this, a variation of voice. Bring you out to float up-grain, in a guaranteed moment outshine. What century in mind comes first, a material. Foot of a compass, source of light, create circular. On which we pivot or migrate.

What becomes: you are an "O" to me, untwisted and calm. As cerebral a nuance. Under-pronounced in this early city night but clear, slick, part of the most distinct glowing ring. A percusive sleep, you and I, syncopated briefly, figures without detail, released from (relieved by) impression.