Look - T.F.D.
Marina, they were pretending not to look, the gawkers. The stressed-out noon boots the afters into rest and your evening unhinges with pale swerve the course we cannot see. Yes, what is it you are doing at night and has being in the middle of a square impaired your spatials? Where is the circle, why is the boyish boy unsocked and topped off his block? All the eyes are darkened here, the puttering gazes wetting like rocks in the unread riverbed. The women here unweave me, your hair tricks in dipping flips my ability to look and be still. Detail, as in she is looking up from unfinished notes, stirring my belt out of buckle. White all around you, we keep our fidgeting minimal, our colors uncollected. You look like you aren't being looked at. Marina, I am fearful no longer of the way I came away from others. Lightness wants me to leave in discreet ornaments tied up to your long red robe. You are saved by this square. I will ascend your braids I will remain on this tile until you are untied; that things this side bring themselves in–there is a table–to a form of wood we can delegate themes for, a posture like a canoe being culled into the bank, your lonesome back and the straightness of sight. They will all be taking away from this–taking–the unfound feeling that cannot be called lost. Assure me that the getting of to where we are is the part of me that will call to you tomorrow in remembering how the lines in your face drew out the last of my gaze. The point, which is to look, is also a walking away. Marina, upstairs the exercises of refugees are seen by members only. A face is unstructured, eyes are often driven by the insurmountable feast of breath on pause. In doing all of this seeing we are the most seen; topical difficulties fall from the borders as beauty is bolted into the skip and a smooth rock trundles in the positioning of the pallid glance. At first, the thing that was first of fell and everything following the air I lost in greeting you. I know this most of all and lastly or that arriving here is connect. Can they take you and not your images home? Are they given anything in the sitting, the unfit sprig of attempted indifference? You've lost the lines in your look, the patience in your face ripples slowly into the unavailable discord of our complex shore.