i. The needle– perhaps, yes– is my tongue. I stitch the seams of loose phrases together; they celebrate the puncture wound with a sigh, which is just that: a sigh, but with a distinct peculiarity, for it is mine.
ii. I set the table and invite all ghosts for dinner. You are welcome here, too (where I sit, unblinking, and respond to your questions with answers that leave little distance between what you know now and what you once knew.)
iii. In elsewhere, I seek a shadowed mirror. You see, I am somewhat sickened by my own infinity: ever here and there both. I only wish to elope with a tinge of navy– for it to devour me the way I do with all.