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?