an end, she used to try. to prevent injury while forgetting but. a line of inquiry:

       do you mind eating that. when consumption proves fatal. with your hands or mouth, what we do without. inadequate circulation, breath. call it a bride’s goods.

if she begged, walked away. the prospects for meeting become minimal. meaning

cold. would you, ignition triggered, happen



to have a LUMINATOR. (sometimes I want to tell. I‘ve resented your hair for so long.)

           but she can’t recall seeing consciousness modulated into words such as



      empathy, doomed zones. a light the shape of a basketball. a little return to denial

           incongruous with a certain degree of intelligence. as cooling

                                    to the boiling point. what knowing an outcome would alter

in terms of beauty, passivity. The Kneeling Lady or The Archer, no matter. she’s embedded in a block, poured and stabilized from the inside out.





a game of correspondence


demands an extension. why wear a suit, Moon. are you dead

already. by future standards or a collective thoughtform few pronounced dead are in fact truly irreversible. as a vestige preceded by a pop or a subtly threatening

click we tend to meet on planes


shortly after confessing to “questionable things.” this is her first dead person, one


                                                               of a series deliberately preserved in space as the sun or





the temperature fields once orbited for the duration. round or diffuse, distraught

           by the death of every option discarded, left to fend for itself. we are ink

on white paper. multicolored, dying to be driven through a landscape

                                   fabricated. the declining impact of noise frozen in a mountainside. a sky

as a social construction a form of mere injury flowing upward. too bad she won’t live but then



we all break down. (can’t say you never made me cry.) (I think you should too because you’re considerably



dead.) red in harmony a boy named Aquaman accusing her of patterns.

  (when resilience dies off, my interior world decomposes

in concentric spheres. in a casket are you feeling better now that you’ve crisscrossed

                                                 the planet to prove you're dying faster than I, rest assured.) suddenly orbs were