It’s nothing really, just
a way of treasuring
things, a feasting
on the bright
world that borders
on the pathological,
on the unseemly
maw of wet nerves,
the gape that swallows
every spine, tingles even
in the absence
of signal, lusts for
every fluke of noise
covets wave
and particle alike
collapsing always,
coming home drunk
or high and falling
asleep in that deep
plexus
where all our seemings cross
where the overspill
was the light under
overpasses, was the solace
of amethysts
and deep kissing
where the numbers
of your birthday
were—write this down—
magnesium almost
and chlorophyll
and something like honey.
vspr.st 