Not making sense is for lovers. Glances into tiny restaurant offices. This kind of thing, this thing, this kind. The snow is turning to slush. The thing is though, the thing is is, the brain imagining the earth, the weight bouncing against the forehead and ringing on in the temples. “Invisible means you can’t see it,” the man on the bus explained. The barren faraway that registers and gets stamped and moves along becomes the air it moves in all day, a watermark of that air, but folded in a shoebox does not remain itself or yearn to travel home, but crinkles up, and slurpingly dissolves.
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