b7

i am patient in the spatial lavender room, for what gloves resolves itself hidden rumor
in the snow. deeper than dissonance or a fall, we become adept at knowing how the
breath sharpens.

saying so allows for what was done, makes an october of damask fumes.
we steel ourselves to forgive, what we had of it outlined against the skin.
beside myself is knowing, is brightness in the midst of decaying, musical leaves.
a white shadow stands at no gun ri.

lightning fuses sand grains together. these break apart under step and wave. what is
stood on bends, resounds. the hollow ear tinctured with lacking a grave.