“this morning when I left Toronto, the rain was so romantic/ it felt like it wanted to kiss me.” –Marina MArina.This is where it ends. Everything is still but your fingers. Save your lips for spines that are spider-webbed & ponder the gratuitous nature of posture. Your chords net the room into what could be the Brooklyn Bridge– an elevation of cinematic paces. Humans pose through silence and this day drips into our mouths like shared chocolate. We call this bitter because we may have eaten in the wrong order. The aftertaste could be cocoa or almonds or the apprehension of border crossing. All of this may be chewed with an ease of oxygen and coconut. Some things are just too heavy to place into palms. Mugs the color of men. Carved pumpkins and museum’d china. A song which is far too delicate to be called anything but the hum found in human. Spend a lifetime in search of the deepest, sturdiest spoon. Walk toward the wild ones. The hula hooper curving hips and diaphragm toward Blondie. Take in the noise of typewriter keys tonguing paper and carbon copied reminders of poems purchased on a day like Winter in Union Square. Interrupt a movie set and become and become. Eat peanut butter hidden inside of milk and dark shipped from a land-locked state further west. Notice the Autumn in her eyes on a packed subway and wonder how much each lash weighs and if you lifted weights with them, would you be buff like him. During the months in which we are (most) lost, an immigrant will find us, pick out each city-soaked splinter and bellow: staystaystay.