pearlingrain

An isolated, winding gimbal floats along The medium between my lips and your ears— A tidy pouch That clutches every thingness in a beaker And distills it to comprehension—bare minimum, Square root of Singularity, Strong like a newborn's headbutt, As typical as José or Steve, Haruko or Kristin(a). Ripe, merciless overcoats of crushed purple velvet Find their way to me In a bargain-priced thrift store. They carry faces, names. Intricate carvings—stones, shells—set in relief on Technology as old as pants—buttons, Cameos. Style à la mode. Cameo is a nice name for a girl. Annelise Tomoē is what I'll name my daughter, If I

she can't speak the words she writes she can't dance the song she plays she can't laugh with the joke she tells the page won't blush she does instead