that is to say, cells. the small of light bouncing off one lone long hair from your cheek—that is to say
our membranes, the very
operational closure of

the system. here is a bat’s long ear and animal
skin—know that when spallanzani leaned in
to study flight, he scorched the bat’s ear.

am i your wolf, an evolution in which we taste
the tart of sumac to feel its crystal edge?

that is to say, the plan(e)t
is at once thirsty and wet—that operational
closure of the system, the small of light dying slow on one lone
arm sprouting hair—that is to say, membrane, long fracture.




as i say wolf you must
know that means kin, i will carry you.




so would you kiss those very
lonely wolves against a crucial step in early
evolution where genetic progress long shuns normative
progress ?




a system that is to say such a boundary
always has a double
function—that lone hair on your cheek in long seducing
wolf loneliness out of me against a crucial step in the internal
compartment of grief.




that is to say, we are specialized in plan(e)t
deaths, repeat in the small light oozing from our lone long hands.




beloved, know i will carry your trouble as if it is mine.




a simultaneous separation from and exchange

with the environment could be as death-ridden as a cut flower
drooping slow onto the cool windowsill.




that is to say progress, whereas the orchid refuses to sprout showy in fear of a loneliness, in
fear of a cruel singularity in this house:

long plant boundary must have been a crucial step in the openness of my tongue against your nose
hair, that is to say a wolf, a bat’s ear, that is
to hear that a bat’s fear is real, that dog’s hiss
at spallanzani’s hand—slick—reaching to show once again how
tadpoles grow a new tail.

that is to say, as easy as a mild chicken stew.




the establishment of a lone, long boundary :

the us military (that contagion) once sought to weaponize bats’

echolocation, their smooth flight.
to ‘minimize collateral’, they had said.




who is to say the orchid snubs the gardenia’s eager flowers?

there, a plan(e)t romance—as if to say nervous system as criterion for whose love.




this wrist of yours is caught in my eye
in a swift, soft flick (you are readjusting
your little watch, instrument of time)

and so i reach for the orchid’s root, its
gesture to spiral out.




a pale lone pack hacks away at something cellular

to establish long boundary, membrane—




did spallanzani’s hand tremble as he caught
a hint to progress in a small bat’s ear?