END OF WINTER THIS YEAR

The spectral other, a chimera in his seat, the seat of sexual difference. I’m learning new words through you. But from. Seeing new places. I just wish I knew how to speak to you. Or a wish for writing to independently alight upon something that gives me information about you. Something like you. Because I am bold, kind, and uninterested in impressing I speak to the second person. Which is something like life. One wonders what I can do with you, for it keeps itself feeling any sort of way. I monograph about you, surrounding you. New hormones course through my body. A good friend applies to be a writing associate at Cooper Union. One job covets another. I feel like someone’s head is inside my lungs, exhaling VOCs and time-stopping substances. Epstein was at Cooper, engineering. The text forgets about itself. We wear some technology feeding each other lines, “Sex disrupts art,” (or was it destroys?) I think, each rupture leads to another. I find the places I like to write and it’s like spring. I feel wary of germs, and their possible temperatures. I identify with bacteria in this climate––surviving, and mucous. You’re floating tea leaves. Verifiable, verified. Checked blue some crimson sky. What with black being a very deep red and all.