The Fixture

I can see myself through the fixture of a literature,
strung out in the typography of the text. lone figure
standing suited on the floorboards, watching out of my
window, for the sign of a color. I can see myself, not
myself, captured in these words, and marbleized
as such: He stood at his window and searched
the streets for color. I can see the rotation of the sun cast
down between the pages to filter through the spaces of letters.
And I can see the night in that which this page is not, see the
night in what I have marked, and to mark myself thusly, to
impose upon this virginity, I can see in the words and my
mind will not go past them. And the magic sits inside of them.
Like totems they form off of themselves, into whatever
geometry they choose, so that parallel lines will, eventually, meet.
I will collapse myself in upon myself, and record it.
The spiral of a systemic, all that I am reduced to: a sequence
of letters. Strung along the sands of this page, found and
collected (by yours truly), this oddity here, this…a…I
pick it up and put it in my pocket, only to find an e and
an m…not too far down is an l and a p, off on its own,
y? z snared in the coral. sticking out of the water;
I steal them and I cherish them and I will form what I form:
26 modalities stretching into infinity. Through these
impurities, a sky that, must needs, never end.