This Time Was Smoke

The sentences were bracelets, once but no longer. Phone cords, holiday lights, a few lines written on the ass end of a telescope. What sequence was strung up, out, over then. It's a gray day burning as we . . . Before was a movement, away. Or a history of mathematics. Going towards that, is it something I can say? There really was a castle, toppling rotting, on a hill which we climbed, routinely. But not this time, this time was. Smoke the fire of what entrails. That's the part I like the least. You.

Oh don't keep me saying Albany. Which I do and do with still yearning. You weren't a comma, you were . . . A purple throw, a scrape to be engulfed by. Held weather, an inclination to precision. You see how deeply I resemble the man I thought I used to be in whose recollection, don't you? While the future beams its perennial but.

It helps to hear lots of things - even this, qualified - it does.