All of this is for the other, the glorification of the other.
That the other might light up,
refuses, light up.

Your DNA is cold and alone.

The only thing which can occur is the magnification
of acts. It is a tree and we decorate it
with lights in a dark season.

Your DNA has plans for you.

“These words are not clusters
but plasmas,” I promised.

The blond couple walks alongside the river, along
coldness, on top of planks they walk
as in a woodcut, hand in glove,
they are pointing,
expanding, a contract
that lovers strike up, fingers aimed
to well-tuned whispers
out over a bay’s slant dark heft of blue
at evening.

Someone’s DNA attempts to blur it.

They click and mutter as animatronics
of a Japanese haunted house. A sky looks this way
over an ocean, it is flame-retardant,
two-dimensional. As we have Munch’s

tepid Annunciations, we smile
sourly into them:

headaches of desire, vampires, clocks,
coat hangers,
orbs on the horizon, naked old men
become profiles,
standing haunts
turning back to woods. These things

happen for a reason. Your DNA
is caustic, trapped. There is a sheep
wandering the distance,

grazing a cold green line towards a mountain,

but it is no lamb.


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