In uncertain conditions the voice will coax. Rutted between cusps of torsion, the line forms a skin on the throat, elaborates its depth. Days clasp hands in the aspic windows Wide through the chain of spaces secrets metabolize and float what reading does. Time inscribes the id of wind and its induction, and Africa clears the structure-tops in actual virtual air. From the margin of its vagrancy it returns a center to writing, the flavors of the sleep I want.
Instinct cuts down a line tracing away, archaically, in love, whose pure privilege is now.
Its efficacy is shown by the buried station and time transposed at the point. Even 'the smallest flow can be a meal' is a meal. The body bares a stage on which a floating tangle toys, its spandrelled insane thickenings, its membrane of silence and one's own breath.