Oh Dissonance

With you, we are the same.  I think
our sun will be named in numbers.
Our second will be named in verbs.

Only verbs, oh dissonance.  With you,
points and planes turn into fauna.
Leaves to grid campaigns and pastels.

War is a song I heard four days ago
and accented seconds ax picks against
the universal fabric of time and ohm.

Chaos is emphatic; the way cotton can be known to scream if you squeeze it too tight, but squeeze it hard and harder too and then push your fingernails in and then your finger tips too until your nails touch your palm and wail, ripping your knuckles, left and right, apart as if they were poles charged by fusion and record the window tinsel fall, with wind-age, cooling veins, while your throat glows.

I think our son will be named.  Born again is about as silly as. A way to see forward can get.  Tricky if you are easily amused.

War is a song I heard four days ago.
Only verbs, oh dissonance.  With you.
With you, we are the same, I think.