Within our fixed object,
ourselves, we are rendered
merely something between
gestures, convenient markets.
As such, the miniature office
of surprise can, as such, be a
a reminder of vocal ambiguity,
centuries of a quietly flowing book.
A recollection of petal-coated
ephemera, studded with blisters
of dreams remembered, and therefore
neighborhoods of gilded organs,
reaching out towards defeat, in defeat,
towards the reminder of an immense
richness, one that sturdy’s the soul
and thus makes what which what not.
