Biographite

So many points
on a tesselate graph

that each bud layers
rings of Saturn
in the phosphene of your
closed eyes
that you hail in revisitation
when you sleep
in all those forgotten dreams
that we say aren't dreams
because they simply weren't dreamt

and I sniff the hint of every shape

the waters of all your periods and eras
the regularity of mistakes

straight from our births that
should have been vetoed in hindsight

and on better days

our births that should have welcomed
the vespers and matins of King David

folkloric solipsism that anything worth
everything came into the world with us

We just do not sing to the dying like we do
to the birthday girls and boys.

The enormity of plasma between stories
and the high rotation motifs and leitcomplaints
we're assured there is skin covering the chest cavity
and bruises will spring up from years old injuries

as goatybois and goatygirls we feed on the fresh
verbiage. This is Pan, desirous lover of her lost to the underworld
hornbag and wracked. At times Pan wasn't to have been born as well.

And we will make this a rule.

Some of the phosphene planets of your lives and waters
will evaporate
and as rules go, at times weren't to have been born as well.
But I want to know the minutiae of all passed and supernova'd
bodies so as to allow for their coming.

! We know I want to know but this why I want to know. To collect
existence to allow for my coming.

I wipe the dirt off my shoes.
I clean the metal in kitchen...
Scrub my eyes to insight to my
amorphous phosphenea

to coin a name
to collect names
to collect
to collect coins by clayed rivers
to collect whorly shells by heads and shore
to collect my sleep in a sonic bed

the hoard the collective noun for a bundle of collective nouns

is not a hoard or bundle.
I collect data. incomplete here. the keystrokes and all.

So I can have your soul and in wracked Pan sores stretched on the graph
have you dissect mine, as verbiage.