his paper cut was cesium. he knew
by the way it was all imagined and the
patterns he swiped on the shoulder
of black-shirted was unbelievable himself

that it could be
nothing other than

and oh yes that it was in the end
elemental properties sketched on the
ceiling. like Vesuvius coughing up
angry planets of whitened calcite

hard it was against the hands. against the gold seekers who
were angry and pious and burned
literary magazines mourning quite
noxiously the wasted carbon.

they all rode russian ponies
and sang raucous hymns after
the races when the moons
were out and selenium on their

it was the long sentences of balanced equations that circled curled
and brassy over his bed. something like

na + cl + nacl

that was pleasantly
illogical. and neither dispassionated by the
dry tongues
of celibate doctors. it was never touch. it was always and never
and completely touch.

the blood coming from touch. the blood given
in an artwork dramatic moment from touch:

and he
founded one
more from
his skin he
named it cerrillium

because when he was younger that was what he wrote down on some paper. and never forgot