It began as parallel futures on a projective plane,
Why move into the crash test?
Why go there without force: When we rehearsed this,
it made no language difference what we
believe, what the soul is.

But I’m done in by grief and American English.
I’m maundering without a commodity or form;
structurally I’m inside hypotheses
to mottle or disengage hierarchal bravado, and I can’t go on
without a preamble — an episode in "possibly local slippery conditions."

Before Schuyler, tall stars were accreting, my yeh —
Viewing rain twisting, “tensile lines,” I wave back, s’up?
We’re at the prelims of average theory
and heights now and whose momentum?