I don’t want to talk about it anymore. A train horn distance erases the last thing said. Encases it behind window-glass interior decorating class-fed briefcases sabotaged beneath weight of an anvil. Somewhere on the other side of what someone has already said, and leaning against the tree of it, a person in a blurry-coat of spiders weeps silhouettes down his non-gendered cheeks. In the tears, earth reflections, speckle across telescopic precision, each one, each for whoever it is that can possibly see them. Inside the eyes of an un-absorbed wooden-table, mirrored appetite crawls from interior to exterior and back again to un-install the membrane of a locomotive, determined to drive over a risky bridge. Desiring to extend my hands through the words into your hands.
A small apple tree. Too many factories. Ballets and curtain calls. The washer machine downstairs. George Washington. A too ton elephant. A gasket. The percent sign, and all its worth.
Ants weave between each letter and send their messages across. Distances enter holes, weave together a blanket of tightly-knit vows. Here is a ring. Tone. It is bound by the finest of atomic matter. Material is the ambitions of humans who placed names where names remain unanswered. This: the affirmation of store windows and icons of packaged sounds, displayed across screens, educating watchers on what it means to hear something.
While particles not in this foreground, pixels of their curves are. It takes calculus to identify them by matching equations. Identifying the universe by mathematical code, a code transferable as the invention of skin on time; a skin, which is not time but its clothing. One day CERN will die.
Until then there is room for touch of the tongue in the ear that doesn’t belong to familiar On but helps un-negotiate organization of furniture’s safety-net; boxed in a trophy case with a code for its lock. Slowly unlocking your eyelids, one-by-one, snow falls out of them as a train whistle follows. The sun rises within your throat, and we hear chickens chirp in your hair.
Here is a daffodil. Absent of table and chairs.
When windows finally fall from clouds, then, you know you’ve touched time.