back to Multiplication.

stifling,
oxygen is a scandal
just off your lips
new like the world
but less like traffic--
inkonhands,
has no one told you we're an artist
dying for a brush of red,
wet on our bones like a
secret?
[keep it fresh, keep us here]

stack me up, i'm a library--
burn me down and breathe me in
ashes to the wind
is a dirty joke,
you will never fly
[how is your head, dear?]

pounding pavement,
praying for a prelude,
prolonging paragraphs of
pedantic parries--

perhaps we are beautiful,
and love, we are quite
in-finite.