(on photographs by Adam Fuss)
Who knew we could float? The stem of each other the stem of the flower its lost bloom split second split and pooling the miracle of alphabets into what is seen and not the senses enduring love remembering the blood of quiet of disbelief its perforated transcription as it accelerates into these new worlds. Conjugation, its mortal name, causing us to overflow the properties of stasis. Because we are more than the sum of our inflections, every rendition multiplies our sentences. Transparent vibrato of film, who was I the moment the shutter cracked its eye, left me wincing?