So
many points
on a tesselate graph

that each bud
layers
rings of Saturn
in the phosphene of your
closed
eyes
that you hail in revisitation
when you sleep
in all
those forgotten dreams
that we say aren’t dreams
because they
simply weren’t dreamt

and I sniff the hint of every shape

the waters of all your
periods and eras
the regularity of mistakes

straight from our
births that
should have been vetoed in hindsight

and on
better days

our births that should have welcomed
the
vespers and matins of King David

folkloric solipsism
that anything worth
everything came into the world with us

We
just do not sing to the dying like we do
to the birthday girls and
boys.

The enormity of plasma between stories
and the high
rotation motifs and leitcomplaints
we’re assured there is skin
covering the chest cavity
and bruises will spring up from years
old injuries

as goatybois and goatygirls we feed on the
fresh
verbiage. This is Pan, desirous lover of her lost to the
underworld
hornbag and wracked. At times Pan wasn’t to have been
born as well.

And we will make this a rule.

Some of the
phosphene planets of your lives and waters
will evaporate
and
as rules go, at times weren’t to have been born as well.
But I
want to know the minutiae of all passed and supernova’d
bodies so
as to allow for their coming.

! We know I want to know but
this why I want to know. To collect
existence to allow for my
coming.

I wipe the dirt off my
shoes.
I clean the metal in kitchen…
Scrub my eyes to insight
to my
amorphous phosphenea

to coin a name
to collect
names
to collect
to collect coins by clayed rivers
to collect
whorly shells by heads and shore
to collect my sleep in a sonic
bed

the hoard the
collective noun for a bundle of collective nouns

is not a hoard or
bundle.
I collect data. incomplete here. the keystrokes and
all.

So I can have your soul and in wracked Pan sores
stretched on the graph
have you dissect mine, as verbiage.