To leave this boundary is to forget invitation, bitten apples.


Basil will die or I might


cultivate a cave to take up a small inch. A functional space


with no affinity to Gertrude.


The same spoon pokes spleen


and I beg you to say our:


like our hour


like our violin.


like our sugar spoon.


Even my bestial assumptions resist symmetry.


I want to spoon more. I want to understand


fear of parallelism.


I know how it goes: it goes


yeah yeah yeah. I don’t even


want you to think.