J. Mae Barizo

In the same way geometry and logic present a situation
of infidelity. You write a story about a man in an electric
car and come away with a theory of plausibility. Tell me

that you do not think of me. Simple as making a primitive
sign with four fingers, the words please, no can figure as a copula,
codex denoting two pieces of wood split into tablets

for writing on, tell me again that you do not think of me.  
That you have forgotten the wild proscenium of cloud, sky's
stenography. Each day yields a different sense of impossibility.  

All of the implicated characters set aside, let us create a schema
of a different kind, how bodies stand affixed and then elide,
the names of cardinal numbers, sound and language holding

me fast to music and the world. I only ask for logical clarification,
a testament to my assumed duplicities. Tautology vanishes completely
inside air that is completely innocent. Tell me that you think of me.