In all timelines,
In all timelines,
buried at the root—
chokehold of want,
breathless and incandescent,
like the burn of static,
smell of wiresmoke and solder
infecting your clothes,
prelude to knowing,
beyond all doubt,
no shadow on the pavement,
sun in the sky,
clarity of springwater—
a prelude to knowing
what your insides look like.
















