An iambic concept has the quality of being. Unlike society, unlike the erosion of cities, thought shapes phrases with a liquid rhythm. The faint connections, chipped vessels reveal cursive letters & sketching. Is an exploded structure still a living thing? Under the phone, its hooks and schema, the breathing ruins persist and decompose. Prediction risks the orchestra’s rage. I cannot tell if the sine wave has the quality of lightness. As consciousness inverts that which it invents. The rise and fall of tones, each consonant implicating the brain’s form. When jumping through strange dimensions, the poem loses its train of thought, like an apostrophe at the beach. Where did it go? The flimsy cardboard sets, decorated with stills from cinema and games. They seem to hide an order of metaphysics. But to glimpse it is to change it, as in the distribution of floating pollen. That which it touches is blessed with sneezing, and a vision of truth that quickens into a bell. I slow down to drink its vowels but the image fails to develop into anything visible. All society is metric scaffolding, until it sneezes. Consciousness conceals figures and faces in dead layers of language on your skin. So the cosine bubbles & repeats. Something you know but never can speak.