this winter parabola 04

iv.

mainline you're on watch tonight. the pivot of your wrist holds me. i bracelet
becoming bright hair--not yours--lifted from the nests of the world. i magpie echo

back that which i have heard enough already. diamond, needle, a mewling
at the door, tonguing your metatarsals. tangent. i am your invention:

centrifugal, spin-away. all is not well. visual alarm is flashing light, sound alarm
is--he breaks into beethoven's ninth, takes off clean with the profits from our

losses; our compression was flawed, lack. but you render static. there at the edge
of this photograph you can imagine where i might have, had i in the storm-front

face of this hewn, spooned a hollow the shape & longitude of you, bristles
of your nape becoming warm codec, rosetta. have forgot the world in frame against.