With a thicker reading hands, in the palm lies a blinded lost stillness (asomatic lineage). Skinned to touch, pulled and peeling...with transparent gesture.
So that the body is a universe with language as aphasia.

Planets. Routed rotations of foraging rhythms. Soiled spaces. Planets not stars. (Teeth not speech).
Fallen meteors on sebaceous passages. Slow, gloomy occultations. Gravity darkens its hold. (Teething, no tearing, biting). Is this astrology's reign of spheres? Is this relativity the size of a universe? Circled around a velvet cushion of heat are nouns, verbs, plots, and black pockets with their tiny pellets.

A train propulsed madly. The cyclic junctioning of station after station as if by choice or spatial similarity. But not: Irrelevant, self contained points along a line. A line directed forward, as with time, into light. As light.

Do Not Shatter the Wooden Self
Fleshed with Souls
Selected as Pointed Pain
Rather, Draw Closer a Cloak of Leaves Left
And Brush Thatched Skin
For That Callous Bark Shelters
an Incontinent Nostalgia