Today's lecture on the bleeding eidolon twilights 'round the following premise:
how, amazingly, I wished to unearth and decipher the aggregates that must
have had coursed through you in the decades spent, statuesque,
on that bench made of glass, your knees diamonds softened
by cupped palms, covered quietly as if the curve of your spine
were furniture, baroque throne unto yourself. A handful
of curls, and how when I wished to close the door
on the apparition, you appeared to be hinged
upon the air itself, suspended without focal
point or fulcrum against, above,
the sea
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