If I keep this up I might have answers
Interferon. An article, that which interferes
Not an antidote, but an object. I am the
analog. The answers that bring the fruit
from the tree. A branch angles falling up
or down, can I reach the weight of the sun or
lift the spirits in the ground. In the air
breathing. In the air breathing. What
separates us? The skin of fruit so easily
peeled and wasted, the part you cannot
abide, hidden among the seeds like fingers
pressed into the Earth.
Imagine a world without zero, where
the math doesn’t count and Newton
falls without stopping.
In the world of pins and needles, your
mouth, mouth, may break upon the words you
speak. The tongue dissects the beads
of moisture, pressed deep into the sockets
where your teeth were. The heart shatters
when it hits the floor. I walk sideways with
my teeth jangling in my cheek. The fabric
of my pants, hugs the knees, each fold
pushed and pulled, like ridges in the sand.