What could happen next, just before light refolds the corner, runoff pools,
a needle falls and the glint appears to the thought of the biographer
of the mother of the father with the hand in the mind you made up.
Who doesn’t want to behold the red button, the murder weapon before it was?
Who doesn’t want to have had the weapon before it was used? Who doesn’t want?
Who doesn’t? Who? Everyone’s clever until the error is laid bare and bleeding.
Something happens next, becomes more or less beautiful, finishes coming
and just bes, I mean is. Something lives at the penultimate moment.
At, of, or in the unbutton, it lives with some fibers attached.