from Distance Decay
When you are not raging me, I am not considering not raging you.
From want of speechlessness and also from being in it.
What my structure is is this loom toward analysis.
If staring wild at vector shadows launched from a live source of mouth light
can extract loving heads that nuzzle from inside the body walls,
then what else could it possibly fucking want.
Whose mind has entered a man as hands full of diffident countries, font-shaped.
It holds lament patiently in its arrows.
This is the way we eyes clear the entering.
But the more I make of force as peer, the stranger I am dreamt.
That I belong to it of body-colored ink, a mineral year.
I try to be discursive. Miraculous.