I put ignition on the coveralls,
my teeth squeaked the rates.
There are batteries in the floor of
devices in drawers of the nightstand, requested to help him start,
I undertook this and shot into the workroom.
I think that you took to me in downslide, destruction was biting,
reduction was writing,
rented by a fine dream of the pen and the paper.
Children of glare;
made so real,
through the yolks of their fingers, leaving me in definitive arrest, unbreakingly silent,
I'm not repelling braided memories, threefold in thought.
I remember what you said to me: "Work with what you've got".
So I worked,
and I worked,
and I worked.