I feel the point
of contact wither like a slug across
the page of my face
it unfolds into
the annals of
a one true list
it’s enough to know that
I will want to have been
(the winnowing
transient corollary—
some congestive form
of contact) the ligature tightens to
distill ∞ into
an indisputablism
sometimes
you’re the mustard and sometimes you’re
the shirt
am I right or am I right
folks