I possess the urge to revelation inside of me,

a writer, naturally;
deciphering the secrets buried deep within the code
of the twenty-six;

the secrets of plasticity.

I try to observe the details of my imagination
in a landscape too dense for me to clearly see,
I can only feel my way around

the multiple dimensions
of darkness and light.

She said, “Imaginations aren’t dark.”
I said, “I wish I lived in your mind.”

She laughed,

but I’m not sure she knew quite why.
She was pretty, naturally.

Last night I wrote
the book that ends the book
that details the end of the modern world.

I think into existence
a white horse;
the end of all details.