the highest point on the plane which is the absolute

Last Lapse

Continuation. The hook and tongue of day. The waggedy that.  Lapse, clasp.

The lace of days in utter continuation. The smalls and mediums and larges. Largess. Pants around my mother’s ankles while trying it on.

The grooves in love like a golf ball.  As it resists its own specificity. As it becomes crocodilian,  recording it all from the edge of the lake. Twelve days. And on the twelfth day, he took the tent.

The day I began to dread the phrase “something pretty.”

The day interrupted with  a chemical burning.

The day period that began last night period.

“Worse off.” Where did that come from?

dearth of teeth. Purple, paw-sized bruises (Nick).

Hurtling toward the pink center of day, epithelium of day, the wet gleam of gums, arranged forks, the blackest dress, the toes in my shoes, the  markup of days, gouging tenderloins, the highest point on the plane which is the absolute center, zero, paul–

“Happy Valentine’s Day Laundry”

(check, check)

“As luck would have it” Again, Where?

Where we are thru the ringer of days and half-dry and curling. Where there is icing in bed. Where the culmination of experience  expresses itself in odd knowledge. (I know you, asshole). “Happy Valentines” Strawberries, all little pink microphones. In season and out of.





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