I distrust gestalt. Now that we’re snowed in for spring, a potential energy snakes through your cold stiff fingers. I doubt that you can even hear me above you, murmuring, venting. Your own tongue could breathe you.

But I suppose I’d better stick to themes. Here’s one: I shit myself that first night, seeing you again after Winter Break. I yes fell out of my own ass.

There’s more of this than you think.

The annuals secrete icing on the cupholders, cream loudly against paper rocks, scissor extravagent recitation as if on cue and as if asked, like it says on your lousy t-shirt. Perennials, sigh, perennials, sigh, perennials, sigh, perennials, sigh. I shit stars to blank hole jupiter pins. I blend you in an nodal kinship skin. Perennials sigh perrenials, sigh perennials, sigh perennials, sigh perennials. Cigarette footprints.

Gun honey.