Wintrytwigs makea pernicketyclicking soundamong blotches of Januarywindow light, post-panic white . . .*Cooling hot milkin an ice bathtoday’s screaming.Roaming the ratioslike a dioramarubbernecking vernacularI basically don’t what it*Leave thedishes tolook upa theoryword onmy phonehold thebig nounin myother handup downsquinting, ishingexposure sloshingin sideand partsto repealin instalmentsash dabon my therefore head*Still frilling around objects with a Jacobeanruff. Freaked out, set a tea towel on fire . . .Your poem says put that in one of your poemsfor drunk relief, to frolic in leafso familiar now I hear it before it happensa kind of hologram, a blotchy auraof fungibility, written down January 33rdorthogonal to the line, the “sun’s lesion”in the curved upside time of the poem’sakin to being rude to a spoon. Just listen tothis tune, embarrassinging our room . . .