if

 

if
how the air falls

in the wake of words
how it opens
the sky

flat line horizon
straight 

surfaces stretch 

painting pavements
with tired feet
I itch
the timeline
I am tourniquet
absence continues
down the corridor
the flaw 

           the flaw in the wires
typographic tongues
our matrixes
sub

     siding
this 

     avalanche
                   of maps
this loneliness
flattered

alidade arithmetic
she levels
with room for all our edges
con

tinuous tone
her interval 

of contours

blankness of becoming
aftermath                   and promise
our old clothes
old
giving birth
on the pavement
new language
mono
meridian
theories like stars
I don't                need
to know
categorising the horizon
I lose
my codex leaves
it's absence in the answer