S/he smiles and I can comprehend that there is archive in this. Remember this remember when oh yes. Here is the thing: our bodies are not necessarily meant to produce over-population. Sometimes ribs can be marinated and pressed against placards protecting the ashes of buildings and nights can be so thick with dust that moons are removed from skies. Yes, there is more than one blue cloud opera. S/he is more than a poet with scar and west coast afflictions. S/he is historical. S/he is bound and bred into grilled nests. S/he is New York Times summarized chronicle of events. S/he understands the gourmet of anise. S/he touches wrists with the precipice of deep translation.  S/he is pianist and skin rhythmically tuned into slants and slices. Overlap. Overindulge. Drink in the drunkness of evening. When hours obscure and poetics summon a congregation of newly translated atheism  look toward the heap of recycled Brooklyn awaiting a crash of gendered aesthetics.