< from THE IDEOGRAMS by matthew rohrer >

I almost understand you.
Then I come upon you as upon a tree
bristling with spent arrows.
I’ve come too late.
You kiss me goodbye sometimes
and I feel you transfer everything.
Sometimes you destroy crystal snowballs.
Sometimes I call you three times in one hour.
The pond that separates us during the day is being drained.
You kiss my hand and I see the folly in my plan.
Let the products sell themselves.