He is not having a hard time
putting papers together.
Papers in their way need
a kind of order in this world, don't they?
He is not confused, but is
trying to make a point. He is
trying to imagine what
the highest number
somebody else can imagine is.
The shorn timbre is apoplectic.
The voice rides on unendingly
atop the damn bray. His hair
is fucking wet. It's cold outside,
despite the icicles
that are melting in the sunlight.
He is afraid of buying a book
because of what the book might mean.
