George Albon

a perfect world living manifests of nipple and tip worked back into the locus one had thought delivered rectangles seep with the slight growing, to walk out onto them a perfect world the identities traced above a ground print as enlarged location, geographies of the whorl the smile that held no life but an erect ransom-shadow

a perfect world a trail widens out the code of indents channels serving both prey and interpreters arms back, re- laxed nerves as in a vat a perfect world placed hand on the breathing field the choices are circled until so dark they must be chosen over someone in estranged weather passed past “these doors don’t”

iridescence as old story, that brought cold from deep a chord moves into an upper chamber among rival unknowns declension toward one end—the merest light-sensitive dot a perfect world the strokes same light value runny, evened illuminations came from the plant the signal blinked search for asylum carried on in an inner distortion

to be reminded of the failing mainspring not sudden silence after the extreme figure but the relative a grimace told him to push the articulation farther the yet green used marks a tongues -width to tally a different sound preceded every word then took to term to feel hips as if new tangents were bolting