imagine a carelessly strewn assortment of notes,
some paperclipped, some loose, curled soft,
some typed in New Courier, some not.
Sampled, collated and smothered by card,
writhing, it gets hard.

The coarse, ploughed weave of the carpet, blue,
bits of pieces, the kind carelessly strewn
in folds, reside, do not hide,
howl in the threads of disparity,
observational clarity

continues. I talk of sorts, sortings,
assortments, assorted things,
assortments of things,
i talk of things, of things.
I feel nothing. truly.