1
Corrections. You drew a straight line and noticed its crooked part. Arrhythmia, was it? Or picket fences for us to blame? The seismic consequence of righting out wrongs. To even realize the thick light
      shining through like some stray decision.
                               The hot mint of touch carved out by concern, and to forbear a slight chance
            at miracles. We have no concept of heaven, this strange wall between us. When I look at you,
   I see myself at bay, multiplying weaved tears for scraps and metals. A mirror of the sea breaking
            amidst the sea. We have no sense of what is right – we only have sense of feeling.

We twirled between the sheets and broke the circles,
   the air in between collision produced silence. Gossamer. Clear. Sure and exact. Where are we headed?
                 We are crossing each other’s worlds with nothing but heavy bags of ourselves waiting
   in stations rid of the populace. Implication: this is the part where I fall asleep standing
          and you carefully traced your steps back to the source.

2

dark swerves to more darkness. Faults. There is a place for all aches a finger, or say a hand where I sense yours, should be. It is here, in this finite silence.
                         I notice peripheries to give them their apt intensities. Say, driving along the freeway,
   you in your night-old shirt, and it starts to rain. I will recognize everything, pile after pile, fade after fade, quick to match this disappearance is your head out in the window
                    celebrating the world and you tell yourself: I do not know, and I care not.
     And I begin to say it without saying it, and you ended it without ending it – this curious case of contention, part yours and lonely selves waxing in complete space
              to the edge of our seats, brought to the brink of all fear but you were braver and I am much
to myself, a trickle of rain descending from inflorescence of leaves.

3

I am looking at the subtle insufficiency of maps, and the enigmas of things their own structures
     eluding touch. Somewhere along the way, we get lost
                    but you remember then, somewhere in the vast terrain,
     you remember where we set foot and marked it with some vague memory of origin,
               coming back to it still untarnished, knowing it was there all along,
and you took it in your hands and tore it apart – your face swollen with satisfaction, we
                     trouble ourselves in the dearth of feeling – what’s left is a naked word
        splintered in the pavement. You told me you will never come back to this
                                strange place.

4

a singular impedance of movement was all it took
       to romanticize what it meant like to be still as your brindled face this evening.
I always held you like a child would, a blanket in somnolence. Rays of sun searching
                 for mouths of flowers – heat becomes its negligible end: sweat pulses
   through open integuments drained of their poisons. The voice from the thickness
         of quiet translated: the moment suddenly hits its sojourn, and goes through
                   gradual dissipation.

   you have missed tonight’s highlight simply because
                  you were mum as a nurse in your camphor of white departure, and I cannot overlook
  how the stars begin to wrestle each other, telling an allegory of darkness and hearing a catastrophe
                begin its fusillade of entrances taking form in tomorrow’s tabloids
  you know not about.

         They say when you hold someone, you transmit something and might leave a thing
worthy of hypothesis. The sound was made clear and I did not flinch.
                            You were asleep the whole time.