not enough, but again, then. (finishing fishing) [different times of a month-long day or a day-long month]. reflections

before knowing what time your alarm clock will display
when you'll believe
to be finally fluttering eyelids

and finding your way to the center of storms / peripheral vision;

when you'll have exploited
all the options
or chosen the option not to feel–
equally as unfathomable, but different in context:

i wish you to have my name on an orange strip in an empty house
full of other things.

not necessarily a winner–
but forcefully silent, while running
the track&field of straight lines in curved spaces–.

when flying through the hurricane you'll notice having no problem
ripping off my roof, void of weight, or welding
while you decide what part of yourself,
or which of your past behaviors
you hate the most.

and even if, i might sometimes substitute my o's for zeros
i guess i can recognize to be biggest flake
of snow to fall in june.
but, hey, not necessarily lost, you'll understand

that i'd never be just an umbrella for a sunny day;

you'll have a shot at matching squares with squares,
when my butterfly hands will have nothing to do with your centrifugal winds.

but, hey, too soon or later.
maybe no later's too late / up to you.

of course it's written for Z.D., who'd you ever think it'd be for? and Blanchot can fuck right off, this pen's alive.