Westwind

Monad

Tory Adkisson

my neighbors aren’t good fences, they’ve transformed
into the who and the what beseeching the like and the is
to take a smoke break with them—
resting in between their ids. and along my lips an iris
grows to immense proportions—

because for me talking is seeing     and seeing is how it
changes from one-two blinks

into a parallaxing structure that
comes falling out the window,

fleeing over fields of science and math:
string cheese theory—which lacking the vital
mozzarella—i do not understand. life is forever

so gland as the pump in the brain that
makes us older, taller,                      a loner.


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