Something about the pitch and the frequency, and the fire.

Galvanized and plummeting,

all at once, ahead of any amount of ships in the night,

ahead of all the other hands attempting to wash all the other hands.

Taller and especially more tired than the spires off in the distance,

that you have to squint to see .

Stopping for no one, but still blowing right along amidst the warm air and the white noise.

stripped away to nothing by those other hands, the loose ends and the heat, too,

Especially the heat,,,

Breathing out all the fun and games,

and regurgitating the pieces and flashcards that go along with it.

Feeling them spew out of me, through my lungs and my other tubes and veins and bones and out of me.

Especially unsure of length and priority,

and unsure of my bones, too.

Unsure of the charm,

Unsure of the duration.

Especially the warmth, and the ultimatum.

We’ve made our point, the point

That’s for sure!

Which is company policy,

and always, always , fucking always edited for clarity.