<^>
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.