the allowable burn has its own topology, the forbidden its own – ash then becomes
trajectory manufactured as solace, the green greet of a nonindulgent poesy – what
burns now, the tangent or its numbered whole? an open space is permission to suffer
or perhaps the inkling of withheld balm – what need kills my whet & stuns my why
ordinarily, pejoratively, oblivious to the whole ? three tangents dance perpendicular –
if I operate minimally, do I enforce closure? do the rapids teach wind a nonrepentant
quietitude? does the whole unwind when its parts scream out for recompense? and does
the physics of atomic unwholes descend as humans do, part license, part vicissitude?