I hate being without you
and hate the prospect of seeing you
in case the event of us meeting again
doesn’t quell my hate
Wear my sweater, wear myself
twine your veins under my skin
we’d be perfect, I think
sipping my cups of coffee
comfortable alone.

There once was a beautiful princess
whose life was pretty boring.
At least her parents were alive.
Dark eyes and hair, hoodies, sweatpants, nondescript
she disliked crowds.

At first glance, she fell in love
with a girl in the mirror
with the moon in the water

though others said it seemed dangerous
bemoaned the lack of pictures
the weekly disappearances
of both the princess and of red-eyed victims.
But no matter – like in all stories,
it worked out.

The princess wanted
to spend hours admiring her lover through clear dark eyes,
and it was so.
She wanted change at a gradual clip
and it was not so.
She did not want to be evicted from the palace
yet it was so.

So she changed
her stomach became a cast iron furnace
her skin warm gossamer
her lashes copper curtains.
at 6.46pm, the clockwork train was an hour late.
There were whispers that she took its timekeeping to rebuild herself.
No one knew if she took a new name,
or wandered, subsisting on echoes.
Lungs don’t need motivation to breathe.

The moral of this story is love at first sight isn’t real.
But I wonder why so many people subsist on echoes?

My first year I learned to do my work
The second one I learned to love it too
The third year I learned to talk to people
Finally, I fell in love with you

Somehow, I’m not yours
you’re the only thing you own
or at least not the only thing that’s yours.

I can tell you love me from the way you twist my hair around your fingers
bore your eyes into my smile
and touch me around others, when you never dared before
and absence
of prior barriers

I am rhapsodic
and complimenting friends feels awfully droll
but I could speak about you forever and never tire of it
Would you ever tire of me
with someone else swimming in your sea
or might you stay twined underneath my veins for as long as I
want you to be?

I would **** to be in any other place but this happiest girl
sip coffee and dance forever
I’d write the greatest song on earth - though I hate melody - to keep you.

The favored poets: Browning, Teasdale, Auden
Dickinson and Shakespeare, Sones, and Li.
and while the fire told me it was true
what stoked the coals of liking poetry?

Of nature, nurture, choice: it was not nature
I come from several cynic engineers
and while from nature my mind now sings music
no poems were explored in those young years.

But I don’t choose which nerves are set aflame
and melt out of compassion for those words,
or else that state would happen every time
I reached the next work in my syllabus.

What makes her like them? Maybe it’s because
her boyfriend left her world the night before.
The swirl of pain flowed out of the trapdoor
and made her brain susceptible to love.

Her eyes would flash, the key hormone would rise
and Whitman croon just the right qualities
to leave her re-seduced. But maybe not.
If anything else happened, she forgot.

Perhaps it was the recent phone call home,
a gentle teacher urging her to grow,
or snowflakes landing on her face like foam.
If I knew what, then I would let you know.

not one but 20 stars power your fortress
the essence of a narcissistic shadow
hidden by the overwhelming brightness of
our universe, or another planet, molten with
no new discoveries since
yesterday.

Golden threads sink behind eyes
A marionette, diving from damp leaves
which crack my new flats on the pavement.

Now rose-freckled, I’m reminded
of spackled nails on
shoulderblades

My cheeks tight, sun-roasted,
heady from new sangria.
Your hair stings my face, swift as forgetting.

Crackling with charisma
I examine you examine her
soft-eyed and hard-hearted.

Sinking in silence
like mushed matcha coating an overpriced glass
her translucent hem spinning and spinning.

Moth wings at my feet I feel like I’ve swallowed icicles
Circles circles
Ahhh yes I curl back up on the highest shelf and glance at it
in my tear ducts as I go about my day.

A rusted automaton covered in ivy
shakes off debris and thatch as it rises, into the sky.
I’ve never seen it before but its iron wings
bar the sun and I know to plant the carrots now
the painting completes itself

I find comfort in
chomping arsenic,
frightening girls and
hiding garlic under my pillowcase.
I smiled at a cashier today,
gave him my face by accident.

Swirling the muddy imprint, your
finger slips past a divot from my elbow joint.
One day here will stand a woman who spoke to
a man, who thought of her as he got hit by
a delivery driver.
And later lilies will cluster around the barred shop
quasi-eternal concrete smelling of coffee.

A letter came
before I left for Alishan
crumpled in one corner.
The imprint of your left hand.

Last year, autumn came early
thick with butterflies.
You liked to watch the swirl of leaves
as I swept the stoop.

The moss is embossed with footsteps
preserved by my slippers.
I hear your voice in the city
but it’s only the city.

In ’16, you showed me a letter
with pristine corners. The lace writing
called you to a land of floods and gorges
Here, the soil is pale.

Summer of ’15, asking myself questions
Why do I hold the pillar in a storm -
why do I climb the lookout?
I wanted our dust and ashes to be mingled forever.

It frightened me. In ’14, wed in Changan
we lost our names to each other.
Your voice, laced with warmth,
I dipped my head as if there were fences.

Remember how you rounded the bench
splattering plums like nothing
as I picked the naïve flowers
through eyes still curtained with bangs?

I heard you sing an alphabet -
each kiss upon the page
brought forth a rhyme - they tasted of
funerial bouquets
 
We made our way through cardamom
weeds in the orange grove -
all while my memory’s future men
spat warnings not to rove -
 
and so I sat - in Alcatraz
as cucumber and salt
swelled in my mouth - no mercy as
my song came to a halt
 
I was betrothed once - to a fly -
who never stood me up
I’ve had tuberculosis since -
my time poured in a cup

we dreamt in lines of thin silk
and I traced you soft - in blood -
you sat me in a mangosteen
and said you’d be back - soon

The quakes run through my veins
The fire and the pain
Of tiny pieces of lead
Churning inside my head.

Sure! We can do catering, I said,
As pools of ice met mine.
For the first time. I knew how it felt to be
a supernova, frozen in delay
a flower mid-she-loves-me-not
a pencil, whisking down
as Ms. Proctor hisses begin!

The first person to kiss me on the cheek
kept me up five hours playing cards
I never saw her again.

In my weekly trial expelling all my agony
“Are we there yet?”

Her eyelids shuttered open,
painted like roses,
like the glass they were.
Her builder cried with the relief of someone who
is finally fine not knowing what’s in store
except that she won’t find cockroaches in her
bedsheets anymore.

Stars
are easiest
to admire from afar.
I realize how they’re more gorgeous
through eyes engulfed in flames.

I cried every day for a month after that
it wasn’t like me.

“Am I still here?”
Oh, you pure fool
By now don’t you know
I hate melody.
I’d write dozens of songs
shatter bones of my thoughts
sift quicksand
to keep you.

Cute. I could write a whole poem about it, but poems are hard, and it’d seem too trite. So I think I’ll write an essay.

I’m the oldest of an oldest of an oldest. The example for three people. The person my father speaks to like a peer and my mother like I’m a particularly diligent subordinate.

I take responsibility in the airport, through the stress of nothing to do during two-hours delays. I learn to entertain.

I take charge of gathering, comforting, keeping out of the way during the most unsavory disagreements. I learn to protect.

I take charge of washing hair without stinging her eyes, talking about goals without the pressure of a watchful future, comforting her over a particularly harsh scolding.

Even before I had the “her”s, my soul has felt the same at 4 and 16 and 20. I think it may well feel the same at 80.

I was the one who faced cursing, stalking, online searches and mid-day phone calls. Who read emails and was read into. Who developed a rusted colander of a shield to use 20 times per week. Who was chased through hallways and stonewalled and screamed for it to go away, knowing it’d do nothing. Who was told I was weak but stubborn, smart but wasting my talent, compassionate but selfish, wise but not knowing what was best for myself, open-minded but choosing the wrong people. Who was told I was difficult and far from anyone’s ideal child. But still my presence was relied on.

Cute suggests rest. It implies a lack of responsibility aside from your appeal to others. It’s bizarre to hear, especially from those I’m supposed to be caring for. What in me could be gently prodded, amusedly accepted? I haven’t been the cute one since 2004.

There’s nothing praiseworthy here. There’s nothing to take care of here.

Set your heart at rest.

Faces of sharp glass
acrylic eyes, mercury noses
Showdolls of the falsest kind
Leave my homeland and destroy me more.

I want you to peel off my skin
**** brisket off my bones
wear a veil of my clanging
twined nerves, hold my
still heart in your hands 
and sink your teeth in
​ gasping and pulse again
build a boat from my bones and 
sail it across a river of my speaking
 
Untwine my brain from the snap of 
my spine into one long scarf and 
tear it in half until you’ve made confetti
I want to enjoy it.

…For I have crossed through fire
over seas bordered by time.
Hazy seem the heat-licked days
when dreams consumed the mind.

Some men may claim the cross too long
and leave the stretch unclaimed.
Though unbought frontiers have no cost
to build up or to tame.

Do not offer Kings or Gods
reign over death or birth,
for who consults tenants of hell
on rules of life on Earth?

A taper, burnt down near to ash
might be snuffed without pain,
but life roaring with candlelight
may flicker down again.

Once more, I must write about you,
as all of my thoughts are about you.

You said we’d be late, and we were!
I never had reason to doubt you.

These false-framed friends of the system
theatric, purport to flout you.

Fingers in everyone’s purses
ensure none shall actually rout you.

Without trying, I collect mythos.
None have the power to doubt you.

…(Your) wrist was chill to my touch,
as the void won battles throughout you.

Annie, why bother with others
knowing none shall write about you?

Just because you’re feeling sick of it,
does not mean that I am sick of it.

Are we not quite good at faking?
We ought to record a flick of it.

Make sure you show it to Mom;
you know that she’ll get a kick of it.

…And Babel’s tower collapses;
It’s lucky we still have a brick of it.

The present is almost invisible
whilst one is in stood in the thick of it.

F*, how are you still so pretty?
I don’t understand the trick of it.

And hours of effort are lost now;
all that it took was one click of it.

Doorways are metaphorical, she said,
as she made short work with a pick of it.

Just because I am now sick of it
does not mean you must be sick of it.

If you leave who will prove that my cry existed?
Tell me what was I like before I existed.

Once by my ear, having passed through my brain
I can barely remember your sigh existed.

She tried to replace cake with another’s bread
although we all knew no supply existed.

I reached my goal anonymously
They had no knowledge my try existed.

Bursting with implosions and marble-seamed spikes
you, Annie, were thus, before “goodbye” existed.

Sunbeams stretching
A single housefly struggles
under plastic wrap

Stainless steel
Cool to the furnace
Hot to the body

Dragon pushes
through the skyscraper gate
cracking jade

The moon waxes
a man gazes
paper scratches

Winter gusts
Tear rainbows of posters from
damp cork

Golden maple
nestled on bent twigs
a single tennis ball

Girl in a cotton dress
streams through violet fields
trailing shadows

From a clear sky
dogwood leaves helicopter over
glistening pinwheels

Crunching steps
Ivy grasps and pushes
through bicycle spokes

Puddles rising
Earthworms crawl through
chocolate soil

Cool water running
over bathroom tiles
scent of mint

A frog sits
on bobbing lilies, eyes flitting
from ripple to ripple

I search at midnight
Your face, once a marble mask
mobile, uncertain

A body, embraced
by shadows and myself
panes lit by moonlight

And meeting your palms
your touches gentler than
a falling silk shawl

All the spans of time
stretch out to eternity
instantaneous

Hands reaching over
and dozens of surfaces
tesselate softly

For a while, I think
the meaning of life is this
and then so it is

Is wanting you all?
I wish I were your habit
Wanting together

Leaving by lamplight
Your spirit a firefly
I’ve kept in a jar

Uncertain future
suspended in brief moments
of today’s meeting

It just so happens that my Shrek toothpaste somehow
went splat on the floor, covered in ants
I don’t know how
to clean a bathroom, properly
and now mother knocks
asking if I’ve seen her foot cream and will I be done
in there soon
and I say go change out of your work shirt
Mythology week awards require at least a toga
“Rome outfits weren’t built in a day,” she bubbles.

Last August I cleaned the toilet I think
inhaling unhealthy degrees of artificial orange scrub.
One of my favorites,
but not as good as coca-cola
which I was forbidden from trying until I was 16.
I hear: “Constantinople will be Istanbul by the time you’re out
of there” and she may be right

I wear my friends like a diadem
yours like a solar system
though somehow, they break the universal law
something glitched in the G
denatures it to P

In a tower defense game, you’d be
the princess, and i the net
of arrows, axes, lasers hotter than life
itself. Did you know my
lover designs lasers?

The sizzles in my neck are all the
more obvious for it. I
got my paper back today. At the top was
a name with my ego
cut to ribbons, beside.

I see someone and know they’re your friend
(Don’t have Sister’s condition
but my heart unknits itself anyway.) We
decay together each
time we improve ourselves.

They speak a name and it’s now a sheath
through which I see the point of
a nose, teeth change color, stacks of blood from your
sharp tear ducts. It’s fishnets
which look like chainmail. It’s

a lot of work perming my hair for
weeks at a time—sowing discourse
like a full-time job. Chaining myself to an
anonymous statue
is a lot of work. When

I wrapped my head like the foam around
a pear, my upper lip short-
ened to reveal my front teeth (the chip polished
porcelain,) it was a
lot of work. Breath in, breathe

out. She’s always a woman to me.
Tuberculosis, asthma,
paxlovid. You cannot sleep, there may be
princesses around. I
ought to smash this circlet.

Sometimes you want to text your girlfriend
“how are you, baby” but then realize you’ve
never called her baby and now might be a
strange time to start so you backspace
four characters and now it says “how are you,
love” but then you realize you haven’t
said you love her yet and tho she’s said it to you
now might be a strange time to start, so
you backspace and say “how are you” and pick out
the male zombie emoji and send
and
a few
minutes later
your phone pings
and she says she’s reading about ears

A girl squirts Reddi-whip from a bottle into her boyfriend’s mouth. I briefly consider asking for some and skipping away.

“No, that’s not the person I am today.” But it could be.

I joy in the person I am, the person I would be around others right now. I’m one of the most delightful creatures in existence, and **** if others don’t know that.

Work feels like an improvement. Struggle the next great horizon.

My friend is singing in the shower. Small music notes waft out the door.

I had a joy which fell into piles
though the birds were rigged against me,
I had the chance to become anyone.

I saw anger in your dazzled eyes
near the iced-over alley
Angels flew down, fangs creeping through their gums.
 
I lost my sock in the charcuterie board
stuck to a torn strip of your neck
When I licked it, the silkworms devoured the raspberries.
I helped the alarm sear corduroy in my memory.

You dipped a cookie in the sea
while mushrooms filled your footsteps.
that day you hacked 
a hole in my spine, 
bluelight scattered.
 
I had a trail of cream, lead 
from my nails to my hips
and hang me in your pomegranate shrine

this sickening feeling is easy to return to
like caffeine sinking a hole in my stomach.
I thought I was earning a thicker-skinned future
but it gives me more extreme things to get high from.

sometimes I figure I’d make a good escort
yet just want another soft place to land on.
my eyes glaze over at all the disgusting
pieces of others. i gorge them like peaches.

some days laughing seems unsightly don’t it?
will you still love me if i lose my temper
or how would it change me? the scent of vanilla
is more pungent than I can stand.

I will drink anything sweetened which calls me
I can resist anything til I try it.

My joints feel loose and battered apart like a broken doll, my ankles like overstretched rubber bands

Mind foggy; caffeine wears off twice as fast

Will low. Wit low. Appetite vague and mercurial, occasional lower body pangs which convince my stomach it has a bug. In search of constant comfort.

The detritus of dozens of “not a big deals.”

I find myself disengaged—why? When everything is the same but—
-I am 3 months older
-She is less easily delighted
-The sleepy aura of heaters coated in snow
==
We are the x in front of a word, not behind it. We put the cart before the horse.
==
Poetry prunes the spiky thoughts off
us so what is left is smooth and
inoffensive. But others are radicals
and then without their words, their messages
lose force, like judo kicks over the course of hours.
==
Rhyme is so sincere, that when there’s lack of trust, there’s lack of soundalikes.
==
What is there to be upset about
except for what others infuse in you?
Think how successful one’s own life could be
without the core, without others who care,
Freer than a paper snowflake with one too many cuts.
==
A story cannot reach its full potential until it loses its identity
and the protagonist scrubbed clean
existing in the minds of the collective.
==
Sometimes you get stuck in academia;
EA would suggest you allocate your time more effectively
but then, full time lit profs would not exist
and there is demand for them. So what’s the point?
I guess liberal arts promotes the self-improvement required for clear thinking,
while EA takes a more biological tone
skim the cream and fridge the rest.
==
The life of the mind is the sacrifice of the life
or at least the other 90%
Those who put you down for living
are not worth your time.
Live the life of your life,
and 髮 yourself until no one knows you
outlive the minds with your grace/wisdom/tenacity
show them how it’s done.
==
Green, stained cloths
lie over the donuts

Proudly standing, rigid trees
   Swaying gently in the breeze
We watch the shadows fall
   Switches whip, the twigs are severed
   Yet the mighty wood persevers
Awaiting its next call
   Day becomes night; sunshine ends
   Branches soon begin to bend
Raw bark peels in strips.
   Autumn comes; the trees must fight
   For each burning speck of light
Drudged from unwilling lips.
   We watch them quiver in the breeze
   The axe-man comes to fell the trees
The thinnest shall go first.
   Year by year, the seasons change
   We ignore the passing strange
Stiff bodies, in one hearse.
   No one knows if it shall end
   The loss of foe, alike with friend
Means sunlight for the living.
   “What shall happen to them all?”
   Still we watch the shadows fall
A gift that keeps on giving.

Is what I think of poker chips colliding
Across the rosewood furniture so smoothly they can’t breathe

Orange
A autumnal of gothic branches
Which bring back Massachusetts, blocking every passing beam

Green
The fuzzy wilted leaf in your incisors
Which you found with rising horror on the night of our first date

Blue
A file containing years of conversation
Tucked away from memory to not be read again.

Your eyes pore above me, inkwells from
which your curls spill forth, dripping down
on unwritten I, down, down comes
a splash on my collar, splattering spiders.
A feather traces my faultlines, miniature quakes the only
sign, the meteorologist who breaks more than he heals,
for once.
Your eyelids burn, a candle burn, revealing handiwork too numerous to read.

The salt of the earth
Seasons fresh mirth
on the plates of the gifted among us.
Gifted with pride,
And holding inside
A wealth of greed stronger than all lust.

Golden threads sink behind eyes
A marionette, diving from damp leaves
which crack my flats on the pavement.

Now rose-freckled, I’m reminded
of spackled nails on
shoulderblades

My cheeks tight, sun-roasted
heady from new sangria.
Your hair stings my face, swift as forgetting.

Soft-eyed and hard-hearted
I examine you examine her
crackling with charisma

Sinking in silence,
like mushed matcha coating an overpriced glass
her translucent hem spinning and spinning.

Just one class today
out of mind, my cellphone holds
the day’s happenings

Thoughts and plans extend
into ellipses, like torn
cobwebs reaching for
incomplete parts in the wind.

Bannisters of pine
creeping as I walk below
stretch to meet the rain

Through university
I am becoming convinced
Genius can’t be trained

Unhappiness creeps
on the spine like spider’s feet
too late to smash it

Cows meandering
through yellowed autumn grasses
the world’s groundskeepers.

Baja fish taco
Bad phrase for poetry, good
culinarily

Just one class today
succeeded by morning rain
how fast I forget

Say: the past is dead
I want nothing to do with it
while you’re here instead

Morning fog descends
why should I write of seasons
if nothing is new

Memories drape like
cobwebs on old furnishings
spiders in their nooks

Encircled by strangers
brushing a body feels like
static in winter

In Heresville, you can
walk to the edge of the world
within the hour

“Your life is boring”
and so? It’s not like I was
given another.

Pry into me please
I won’t know unless someone
else does it for me

I look away
find a hole in my vision
unyielding lamplight

The screen glow flashes
my brain buzzes like fireflies
Refreshing the page

My silkworms wriggle
across the knolls of my hand
traces of silver

If I could enchant
without thinking about it
all would be set right

****! I find my phone
cracked like an onyx mirror
my face in two parts

On this winter night
The moon lights you from the east
an opera mask

What gave it away?
My face in the low lighting?
The night stretches on

We are not ourselves
the room empty except for
Dust motes in the air

I don’t regret this
searching to find you perfect
I do wish you weren’t

I wanted to see you
And in the evening you came
Is it that simple?

Visiting Beijing
industrialization
ages my breathing

The fear of failure
proves nature itself can make
a type I error.

Can’t improve, I fear
iterative editing
is not my strong suit.

A better approach
for me is to engender
dandelion seeds

Crimson poppies sprout
from her butterflied neck
but not as graceful

The squid’s creation
Unbeknownst to himself
idleness and bubbles

You read, I’m writing
Nothing that hasn’t been done
So- why bother?

You write while I read
remnants of past monuments
The moral is nothing

A pristine kitchen
In my community dorm
No cups to be found

Ah, I don’t know this
I’ll decorate my ignorance
and most will be fooled

Some occasions I
make people very happy
and I don’t know why

Fare thee well / Fare thee well.
May we never meet again
Until we both go back to hell.

Oh god, I hate the silence
I have much more to show you
I haven’t been this dull since
I spoke to those who know you.

I’d rather make something else
than ever acknowledge it was less than perfect.
“Self-improvement” rings of greedy influencers.
Constant change that of
a flaky millennial who won’t admit she cares about you
who’d prefer staring in the rearview
and changing her hair a third time.
it’s difficult to find this urge to make things better.

Isn’t it odd
that one of the most traditional institutions creates countercultural niche-ers?
Locked up in libraries with products newer than scars
holed up in memories of a better way
re-creating what anyone has said before.
Seems I am one of the prideful.

My heart skips a beat at a baseball cap
Or at a lone runner, dressed only in black.
Cool-colored curls trapped under a hat
Or tied, cascading across your back.

I’m a fan of mischievous smiles as well;
Glowing complexions put me in a spell.
Habits that show someone wants to rebel,
Or parting gifts during a quiet farewell.

Low voices with gravelly tones
Or pacing after you’ve picked up the phone.
Analytical gazes when something’s not known,
Contained frustration while sitting alone.

These features are lovely in others, it’s true,
But most importantly, they comprise you.

Lately I’ve learned to tolerate the rush
Which once flowed with each instance of your name
Reminders of you, now, less often brush
Against my soul or set my nerves aflame.

At times, it can still be unearthed in me
Borne from soft fingers on my wrist; a sigh
Those gestures of yours, light and feathery
With power to stop hearts or clear the sky.

What once was constant will evaporate
From scarlet oceans to soft meadow greens.
Schrödinger’s cat will choose a final state,
And branches brought down by time’s thoughtless streams.

When none is left except my thoughts of you,
Will this be worth what you’ve witnessed me do?

A human goddess on the sand
Stood barely in my sight.
Her gown was made of drumbeats and
Her voice was made of light.

Each ear was a translucent shell
Each eyelid mother-of-pearl;
Her voice a steady tolling bell
By which time’s hands would twirl.

O Goddess with my shape and mind
Your worth unknown to man
How can someone worship your kind
Sans structure or a plan?

As such, the price to build a temple here
Would be to watch the whole world disappear.

Existing can bring pain, I must confess;
from diseased innards, torn by obstacles,
to hands that crack and bleed from nothingness,
or senses hurt by minute particles.

And yet there’s power strewn within these limbs;
looks which inspire artworks quite sublime,
spirits almost immune to mortal whims,
tongues that can sell souls or others’ time.

This is the catalogue of human parts.
The price of purchase: absolutely free
and whether you’re dealt threes or kings of hearts
is not determined by you or by me.

For each feature assessed by this self-measure
may be one person’s curse; another’s treasure.

When we met, I couldn’t eat
and when we’ve met again, I’d hide
my skinnied body under coats
hoping you’d overlook my dearth

The emptier I got, the more I said
to others, the more my fingers whispered
psalms or songs of trust while lain in bed
my brain scrambled like eggs which I ignored.

Now with you gone, I fill my own mind
with ping-pong conversations, fill the lack
with fluffy pancakes, syrup, morning biscuits
fill the eve with Thai food and my friends,
all while my form rejects this strange nutrition;
to not be empty drives it to sedition.

I have an artist’s heart and I regret it
I know I’m better off than those who shred it
when all they seek to worship’s lucrativity
yet trapped in cages of their own passivity.

All I want is deep dives to the hearts
of mine and others. Chugging in the back
in sickness and health, those relentless parts
will carry on, always craving attack.

Why couldn’t you have given me more skill?
A teaspoon’s all I think I’d have required.
I’m told I have more than wholly desired
in other fields, still left unfulfilled.

I know I’m better off than those who shred it.
Why does it feel so difficult to get it?

I want you more than I can currently say,
Literally, I do not know how to say
in this dimension I hear, do, know
nothing but my place on the line

Treat everything in terms of its relationships
then it all looks to be made of the same stuff
why not know what’s a few leaps ahead?
I guess you should know—

Maybe (a point) would bleed, feel splendid as silk,
But why weight a blooming tendril
Which has been there since forever just now zoomed
enough to see? Can’t you curl toward another infinity?

I don’t think anyone remembers the language, but if you touch me
I’ll stop thinking, and everyone is fluent in that.