THE CANTOR SET
One year ago: costumes mark out a trajectory
path since then. I cede it to a new other who
Crouched in the subway, waiting – the brain
sleep in in-between times back into the slow
Lucite has settled down around my eyes, into the folds
the lines of your hands into craggy trees that speak
Some other self of mine has set traps for the unwary traveller.
that cannot still or settle, having it be enough. To be the splinter
Neural pathways no longer trace out the old maps; ink
I cannot sync myself in/to you. Always a little shorter
High heat, measured: the metal gives.
enough to cool and harden
All of the old stories stretch up, pressure
in the earth, there is ice like the centre
I'm tired of swallowing this. I'll bite. You: some bruises, some sweet reminder I'll leave you. Shaky & haggard. Pulling out the middles leaves you with thirds. Pull out the middle of those left: eviscerate it inside out: mechanical, perfect, elegance of the infinite series, eradication of chaos—o, some slight paradox, scalpel. Hush: the mind falls into a rhythm in this. Mercy. No. Recursion.