Springing lays short. Our waiting is as impossible as the school-globe’s rust, damaged with tenderness in the beginning of something. Must believing waste the size of indifference into air? Mere inhalation of sheets and scalene space, horizons we drank from, to aging tell the last line again again. This infringe the heart’s wheel in changing shape, Mere being drips. Half of aspiration occurs on pillows. I know to stay silent in many ways. And now there are windows that go nowhere. The flow of mooring and of mixed thinking— The untouch, the unsay, the undo. It’s all not here.