this winter parabola 11

xi.

cultivation requires distance; i a sudden ability to grope through pattern toward
form, returning my way to the baseline brace for impact no hold up. drawn up

short, sharp, we stand-off, staring. you a bird, perhaps of prey. search me, you
said. then, oh then, i pointed. determinate in the face of the Now which is not

yet spent. a solder-gun for my circuitry, some resistance undefined, new negative
space on the horizon: a rising mass. from here could be missile silos, pure

possibility, the aparment complex where i found you drenched on the carpet
after three days of hard neurotransmission & a carton of cigarettes / pair

of pliers, copper wire, rhododendron leaves--photog-glossy, night-sheen on
the fender of a car not yours--stop back/catch/ that place has been razed. give gifts.