digress from this river that flows into a straight line. the following here will be that there is another body waiting at the brink of another figure lacking in speech: brook as excursion.
this plaintive leitmotif this afternoon. everything smells of old furniture. something this is trying to preserve wrung out of suspicion, shorn out of air and unrest. when I begin saying it, and when I become what I want to become, I will fold you in a manner
of houses. tell me of the footfall before I plunge. outside my home you will be waiting
for a question because you liked the idea that askance is the heart of all assertions. and I will slowly begin to realize that imagination as machine, has not failed me.
when moved by the sight of you, gradually dissipate.
when halted by the inching step of your basis, take a moment as evidence
and use as ground for furtive contest.
when there is evitable cipher of silence, I will phrase gestures into something like a metaphor would induce
when there is meaning, there is the moving away and coming unabashed, pendulum your way into two walls as weathered as this house. Your face, a thousand adorations. your heart a truism in the heat of naivety in place of a wild embrace. your hands this evening, tremulous, nervously seeking to be one with my measurement: this thing that has nothing to do with me, except we have such fondness over allowing sorry states. that we have use for what we have no use for. This thing, a fragment so foreign to me, like hearing my name disintegrate, as if a thing of obsolescence, as everything is.