W H I T E G O L D – Brooke Nicole Plummer

In repeating some prototypes of Ison & Whitman // overwhelmed — overwhelmed // overwhelmed hemming its way through everything // The dome of evening inevitably settles toward aporetic coping // with the bibliographic spine of bashing around // to euthanize desire enervated // to withstand the margins of undoing // & still stand //
like the flare of the weekend // synergized with the glory // of not making it out alive //

Air it out — I still breathe through your name // my aerial dance, my shadow privatized //
rest beside the assembly of my millisecond ricochets // I’m as tempered as a glitch-slideshow // swaying away — your way — nowhere // defying the laze of empty questions // & showcasing a merrily flammable finale //