Blackened windows:
We know we don’t know.
Prose is a marketplace,
a rendezvous to encapsulate data fields for the tongue.  

I’m sorry this happened. I was going to stay  
from the moment we set the stage from squinting within representation 
until I went broke. I was then indebted. I am now.

I just can’t say enough.
Now an international scale opposes the lexicon of my body. It’s scary-loud, yet there are comic arguments as dreams seem to centralize.

I have come to my senses, acting my age with your beauty inside. So what I say prompts the assembly I made of torn Gillette letters and smaller decimals.

Each step (of my essay) ground in my heart.