I read myself. This oomph of rationality. How the oddball
silently skyrocketing inside my body, its diurnal
science always unsettled

How the rest is not struck, at night too. But lettered. Insects pull
themselves to the bastion-elements of, oh, the
poor fire    That    becoming the best screenplay, written for
a prejudice. Me-&-Us, sitting in a reactive row, looking at
the open fire, vs unshaken moths, out in the window

We then grow metal roses out of a short curiosity.
Without plucking their smells, the road goes ahead. That’s how
ninety months like April tell me to walk on. Roads and roads and
roads of wasteful logomachy thus making the circle complete.
Which, essentially, means they let me spread the galaxy again,
with the legs and wings of thirty mythologies.
And I finally get the river coming out decoded, decoded

In this river, it is my global birth fishing. On the bank, a magic
word, falling neither from the sky nor blackboard, manifests in
the most living creatures. Disembowels creations to prove
my premature salts, papyrus, woods, dreams and urban wishes.
Then prepares a bagful of alphabets free to burst to my body

You know you can only fuse or abandon me, never read