the moth dries on the spot, the spot marked here, abstractions were wet with viscera even when you drew a line through and through the essay, experience is killed on the spot marked X, here is neon at midday with vacancy, here is another smudge resembling X, here is that X filling an emptiness with irrelevant dance, each sentence replaces the last, at last, you circle a room on the map with caveats, it has been circled into memory, vacancy flickers en masse, and oh this tungsten is cool to the touch, a twist of comma, then another, filaments bend this as this and this is without epiphany, reach out and twist the ones of lesser cognates into mortals, a name came this close to preoccupation, in a room with kudos you were the last name to be drawn onto the mouth, with italics, you exist free of nomenclature here at the hour of answer, with answers, here with a prose-soaked response, here the tilting I and I am the only suggestion as this turns to prose in the penumbra, gnomons clutters the nominal, I unkempt for cover, the canvas shifts to suit our narcissisms, the screen scrolls, left-wise, the perfect direction to start over, a homunculus taken right out of your mouth without context, the red herrings, they come in at night, days crestfall with mediocrity when the biography is inhabited, memory under the confluence of repetition, I was beginning, brimming with applause, a wilderness would fill this concavity if called, if called a mouth, it did not pick up, I was forced to start over, I wanted to, I fingered the reset button, I blew into the cartridge for a false sense of certainty