There are these cataracts in our eyes. A dividing roughness that slips up from ground like it's a gift we resent and hunger. I hunger you. I don't understand the theorem, my own workings. The train or the bed sheet fabric. I don't understand the music but I have forgotten its rifts so completely into smell, into bumps at the base of my spine. They will later break free and spill their liquid onto a dinner plate, making everything inedible. I'm supposed to. I showed up.

(I'm thinking of being on the hood of a car during a drive in movie, drinking whisky. I'm thinking of being drunk and holding hands. A leaving plane, how we're nobody but two heavy depths of oil--the smoothing and pinching of an elbow in our side--then disparate, then over, a kiss tastes like moist bread or wood, maybe. Or smells like moist wood. It stays like pockets of air in the base of your spine. One day they will make everything inedible.

Live in the light, you said. Put it in your mouth, I replied.