Finally, you said it. The cloud commutes from your mind to the earth. To absorb its remainder, to brood on motes of figuration. Not to mention, the place where we went swimming. How it opens one creamy eye. An arpeggio of reflection, how it bespeaks the volatility of the plural. I have some voltage left, and a misspelled fugue, and a paperback book. The chemical of memory drops your heart off at the lake, in the fragrance of speech. Now having flashed with ambiguity, the synapse turns its face toward me. To absorb its remainder, to brood on motes of figuration.