I’m sitting around this room like a wet envelope exploded. The furniture in flux elongates to a mournful fruit. On the stream they’re informing me with hope that the first african american attorney-general. The first dark president knows the deserts I trail through this morning-hollow house. I stack smoke on sunshine; I’m fresh out of arguments for myself, and persist roundly.

I’m starting to understand Mary’s satori. I’m sure this isn’t the first touch of a void on feeble glass. She falls into it suddenly, among the roar of truck engines; don’t you get sick of every gesture meaning? That there’s an ugly romanticism in these contussed panes.

Spheres rescue the brunt of space through rupture. Just telling you that, I pierced pinwheels, tacked up maps of alluvial voluptuousness. Look at this box I made you. I was too tired or too fucked up to make walls.