my legs have seen better cashmere
than this lamp of blanched bulb-
and my tendrils, better sunshine
than this pallor of fraying felt.
would you excuse me- just for a second?
I'd hate to reduce that discordant disk-golf
that you call "discourse"
to anything more than-
what's better known as-
abhorrent.
would you excuse me? I'll be right back-
it's just that late nights tend to
dilate my find of last rites and conflate,
switch back, rewind, the time so that
my psyche somehow aligns
with what's trying to find me.