but art must be all these things, even that i cannot make shape of. it's the shiver and the dampness of skin, how the sky keeps every breath we have spoken, the warmth of the pavement when you're pressed to the sun, the songs that do slip under your tongue, a smile you sometimes catch on corners of sharp days.

i drop matches in my brain that flare up because i swallow the smoke.

and you are too kind that i can not taste the colour i understand.

but he is controlled by blood and could he keep my name?