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