>he tells me

of all the numbers

two is his favorite.

unassuming, even

‘it’s the first number.’

one stands alone.

to wander among the irrationals

and lose itself

among the search for the first.

why do i prefer sixty-seven

and he, two?

would be the last

to fit inside

three-and-a-half

broken stems and dimpled skin

of unwashed fruits

stacked, one by one

a mesh of chartreuse

gleaming apples i cannot count

a soundless sublimation

towards a trembling height

of unseen emptiness and

asphyxiatingly beautiful

bottoms nestled into indentations

of tops and broken stems

fitting so perfectly like

puzzle pieces, convex

and concave do the tips of green

connect and hold fast to each other

with abnormal vectors

and gravitational naivete.

stack connect and climb

up up up

i’m on my toes to

stretch my reach

eyes closed, breathlessly

searching for what i

may be among

the cracks in the wall

rust in my throat

facing palms

and the inevitable tumble

which commences with the

eighteenth.

i tried.

rope-like

warm and encompassing

to bind and liberate within

taut loops and not

understand nor reconcile

the unspoken.

but smiling nonetheless

revealed, i can remove

myself from the colorless

and into the green

clean and generous

you paint me

two times my size

to float amorphously

through the shape

state of turning

welding weaning

myself from the smelting

i cannot resist and

cool inside-out.

playing

the flute, a pan

in the forest running toward

the lake viewing wit

cleverness in the water

wink wink dis

appearance

the melody ceases for

i retrieve what you have

left behind as a

gift of unintentional

arresting

behind eyelids blinding

light proves pink

wet blood swims to

cause sickness of motion

‘you look a bit green’

after a mile of

wanting to turn back after the

thistle had been buried

yet soft green — more

delicious than buttercream —

silences rouged cheeks

i cannot begin nor stop

this stolen song

watching the fall of

our

eighteen.

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