until recently, possibly only very limited reports existed,
detailing the statistics concerning my lifestyle;
including the yearly consumption of gasoline
for this particular personal vehicle (
& paired with mileage, one might calculate
fuel efficiency)
and the money spent on clothing
a few cents beneath fifty-eight dollars
to finish one year of this thrift category-
spectacular .
but you & your figures are more
temporary and imaginary
fluid not numeric
not life and death but flashes
pain and ecstasy
and a ribbon printer attempts
to screech the logic out,
line by line,
through the night
sitting in some office
in some dark corner
as its data sleeps and dreams
or has their insomnia
chaffing in the form of floors
that have come to roll up
the breath you leaked free
(you dare to imagine how many
more you could have saved)
the mighty wretched sound
of tall toppling knowledge
our instincts are all that's
left for us
so instead of wondering:
we act
pulling wires from the outlets
screens fade dark
and printers stall and shake
to a stillness that echoes
our shadow against a faint wall
where a tail of cord leaves the palm of
our hand, the electric prongs
limp and dead against our fingers
we find ourselves staring into this shadow
wondering at how we became
one person ; breathless
as the floor curls up
above us
(instinct finds your arm
shielding my eyes
&my panic smeared on your face)