the new milk stains her blouse. ruining it for the evening
we push legitimacy at it like a warm bath

the wires outside dangling from dead trees
and under the ground, are
    bringing
    things
    places


we make a pact to explore the transhumanist desire of language to escape    now-space
our
less than opaque skin will hurt itself trying to be                                                    more

unu­sed, falling from what passes for grace,
it will be expectable but idiosyncratic to the
                                  genre.

she is a force of nature
you mistake her for ****-doll. but you will be corrected

her lips are shining like rug burn☆
and the typos become art.

the favors search, inching upwards, laughing as we find the best parts

the whites of her eyes are old masking tape yet
my
teeth are grinding like wet bark on the car door.
leaving paint behind to mark off where we have been_
in a gesture that says
we existed.