I would just like to point out, but I always end
up pointing in. “Everyone’s holier than thou! &
I’m definitely rolling the dice!” a camo-clad
gent w/ dork beer a good sixteen fiats away
exclaims—just as I was measuring how to use
inkling in a work: this report brought to you by
the Tompkins Square Park Skocial Mistancing
Fretwork, & Aaron Shurin’s elegant purple mask
on instagram matching a doubled pair of purple
gloves I cycled by on B a minute ago—they did
possess hands, attached to gaily striding arms
accompanied by too-comfortable (a projection)
smiles. My own powdered transparent gloves
make my fingers look desiccated—a thought
parallel to a fuzzy pink gasmask sported by
a fellow strolling by twenty feet away, fifty
masks for seventy bucks at the stationary
store on A, if you ask, grayish blue and intent
a whole other present, my idea of a sentence:
a summary of daily briefings delivered by
rainbow buntings, the horseshoe bar selling
drinks to go to a politely spaced line, & when
the drawn, I mean dawn, distracted from its
game of catch with figure & ground, speaks
I just keep listening to this fish, aghast at
the split fins I and we call legs. I hear sitting
in these fins, sunlight a costume of horizontal
neon bars, early pandemic bloom lines coming
through cracks the clouds briefly perform
for Charles North