Alice Fulton

It's just me throwing myself at you, romance as usual, us times us, not lust but moxibustion, a substance burning close to the body as possible withut risk of immolation. Nearness without contact causes numbness. Analgesia. Pins and needles. As the snugness of the surgeon's glove causes hand fatigue. At least this procedure requires no swag or goody bags, stuff bestowed upon the stars at their luxe functions. There's no dress code, though leg irons are always appropriate. And if anyone says what the hell are you wearing in Esperanto —Kion diable vi portas? — tell them anguish is the universal language. Stars turn to trainwrecks and my heart goes out admirers gush. Ground to a velvet! But never mind the downside, mon semblable, mon crush. Love is just the retaliation of light. It is so profligate, you know, so rich with rush.

we had to read the instructions as we sank. In a hand like carded lace.Not nuclear warheads on the sea's floor nor the violet flow over the reactor will outlive this sorrowful rhyme.

And where my organ of veneration should be— wormwood and gall. Grudge sliver. Wailbone, iron, bitters. I mean to say the miniature waterfalls have all dried up in this miniature place where day is duty cubed, time is time on task and every mind optimized for compliance. Time to delint my black denim traveling stuff. The flourescent major highlighter has dimmed to minor. I'm so dying I wrote when I meant to write so tired. And when I sleep I dream only that I'm sleeping. Please see my black stuff's dusted off. Night has no dilution anxieties, but only the infinites are happy: Math. Time. Everything happy goes to many decimal places while flesh passes through gradations of glory. I visualized it, the nurse said of the bedsore. Everything exists at the courtesy of everything else. Please see that my grave is kept clean. Beloveds, finite things in which the infinite endangered itself, excarnate to memory and the divine substance has limited liability. You're kind, I tell the infinite. Too kind.