with the myopic tremble
sprung from conjunctions
undulating in warm turns
and swimming down my throat like antimony,
let’s be frank
your eyelids will mark passionate calculus
in the framing and allure of paroxysm
(you can call it that)
but the limitless bounds of tomorrow
still won’t really matter much.
and the black of your eyeliner twisting
gnawing at the coals glowing calmly
in the center of your chest,
the ochre tones of your walls
the same as your un-seamed skin
how fast, i wonder, is 10 Hertz?
and does that really matter?