I think of myself as a banal thing. I want you
to know, I studied Newton’s law of gravity. Now
everytime I throw out my grief, reaction is anything
not shrunk. The purple expanse takes me the way a
cell takes charge. This is just a way to explain why
I admit playing chess in the geography of loneliness.
How I change the position of armies from both sides.
At the end, I don’t know, should I consider myself giving
a victory. Or a rebuke for loss. Who would listen to this
story that has nothing to be called wondrous. Like an
obsolete train track. The hem of my geometry once risked
itself on the shores. More the waves washed me, erasing
my shadow. I envisioned this as the bathtub that broke down.
And the water flexed moisture to fill the whole house. An
imagination overlapped a happening like an intersection
where I am not connected to beauty. And if yes, am I
appealing to this universe. In the same way a dark is on
a Friday night. Suddenly from my fossils-in-process-of-being-
made a voice rises like god’s forecast of Sunday after midnight
foaming your image. And now all I want is a run away from me.
Both alerting a thing that never shimmery. Through the direction
where the theater of storms are in repeated plays.

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