When you spot your lover, looking for a vein with cotton on an arm/lung, or turning on the oven or from a profane trembling, becoming numb with pleasure and someone says 'if you wake up now, it won't be too soon,' and you trust them again, enough to buckle beneath the tide which is dense but empty, like the wad of cash he watches back, back-then, and all these rumors, levees in the webs that hold our lips together, tugging at the soon (not-yet) fortresses of shy dandelion binding the breath undone or somewhere else. Everywhere else, because the soft bodies scatter so well, so unlike the wealth and so-on, bypassing the mind so-well like catastrophes or like miracles or cause I felt like it.
Suddenly is gradual
