A fragment
of a fair copy would undo our slant meeting,
an in–flight movie
where we chatted
how life was choosing not choosing.
Joy and gravitation,
the day turned
canonical,
my book's cover and spine.
The sky blued
vagrant scribblings into print culture,
what shall be clad,
the day’s whole cloth.
A scribal hand,
a something.
A kiss away, a kiss away, a reader's
curve,
a reader's little addict
in black pants who would like to
sit in the dust as Heav’n’s other spangles do.
I lowered
I wrote the answers on her hand
I approached
as an alias, trachea
without sound, my signature, bright felon.
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