Math, math, math, math, math, maths. We’re now past the vanishing point and into an aftermath. At first, there’s a fold in the sky. Next, a ghost in the leaves. Finally, a letter. Irradiated wrapping paper dressing up an SOS. My letters fasten lightning rods to our new syntax.
Flat induction antennae. Flat interception umbrellas. Hand-to-hand town. Butterfly more building than. Bottle-at-sea-with-a-handgun-inside.
Communication has become the echo of dissolving planets. Skirt-plummet green. Endgame-white tonguekiss. I design colors for things that don’t have any. Navy blue half-days, salty-red heat spikes, Jurassic-pink rain delays. I distill younger, northeastern summers into lists. Pinecone, Sno-cone, skateboard, comic books, hand job. Glue sticks, warm buzz, laser light, tunnel-fort. Heliotrope extremophile, ocean-trench hand gesture. Dear brand new mainline, dear sentient style, I miss you in the tendons and find you in the absence thereof.
immanance& math poetry& desire& memory