3.2

What I say is never that, but something else. I’m walking the molten center, standing two hundred yards away, calling towards the break; Crouching on the floor with the hundreds of letters while windows rattle, screens brighten, the gyre spinning outward; Finding form in so many arms, a momentary dream of becoming a spider so as to open again with that much more, each limb only holding so much; What I say is never that, but something else; The distance of hands, a spine curved just so a chest can fit; What I’m saying is that pea tendrils can be cooked up with lemon and garlic and sit, somehow, on a plate; We fit around each other.