These titillation seconds
half broken
over the arm of the chair

and we flight security
risk, run
discombobulated overhead

compartmentalized mentality
all fortune
a chance mistaken

progress of things unrealized
a fault
of linear time and thinking

these masks wear off like
any other
jewelry, or face, leaping

from town to town as if
sideswiped
with rush, with altogether

too much pavement
too little
the sound of scream and

silence, simultaneously
barren
filling the empty words

with half token paraphernalia
saturn returns
with rings on the side, peeling

clothes as pastime, as ritual
or frequency
to date there has been no

smacking of the lips on
plate, on
eyelids—can you hear

me, that’s the sound
of not sound
of calling the phone just

to hear the voice of
the speaker
and perhaps breath

coming down the line.
I’m mistaken.
I want only your eyes.