The dark collects our empties, empties our ashtrays.
Did you mean "this could go on forever" in a good way?
Up in the fragrant rafters, moths seek out a finer dust.
Please feel free to cue or cut
the lights. Along the order of magnitudes, a glyph,
portable, narrow—Damn. I’ve lost it. But its shadow. Cast
in the long run. As the dark touches us up.
Earlier you asked if I would enter the data like a room, well,
either the sun has begun to burn
its manuscripts or I’m an idiot, an idiot
with my eleven semiprecious rings. Real snow
on the stage. Fake blood on the snow. Could this go
on forever in a good way? A brain left lace from age or lightning.
The chicken is a little dry and/ or you've ruined my life.