My phobic truth was your discipline.
My lush obscurity, your citizen lips.
And so I prod the fetish twig.
For fantasy is velocity and I cannot resist the liquid of its
pronunciations, its oval site, its mirror -
near
sky, tar and error.
Flung far into the nether, the imaginations
are left to their own inverted devices - apparent
acceleration due to time-dilation. Really
an eternity spent climbing the asymptotic
beanstalk...or shall we make a bee-line to
the blossoming?
(pre-) Destination
over there.
<^>
cs/djd