17: We don’t want to be a second late — I’m hellbent if I could, to write the beauty of your eyes where numbers number (poets rage) — filled with only half the story in time to come.
That and your grace. Who will believe these touches are fresh, living parts of you without touching, without your offspring stretching into the night, keenly inanimate tho alive that time.

You said no way, I don’t like it, blah! / This poet lies
tho. Yet we are parallel..