laugh when you peel your leggings off to show me a tattoo of a beaver; boom-rays sift-lifting off the pier, too much blue in this light; i dont, and still there is adjustment to unrefracted, untempered, unstoppable, cloudless clop of pure fucking light all over me; nordic times in your basement – making the spare eyelash of a heavy flashlight move across too many surfaces to do any good (light lost in a bushel of jackets, this strange weather enchant you from your trunk and closet); small world over here with roaches captaining spread-it squad across this bullshit paradigm