Real Numbers

How does this thing of ours pass into familiarity but as a cloud, slow and deliberate.  As a hand passing money, taking money, across a counter, over a can of beer, goes through, or perhaps despite, unnoticed mumbles.

You are a weary sound against the sleeping body.  A translation of fingers.  A simplified tongue.  And our figures are moving for mostly invisible hours at a time.  Working toward nothing in particular.  Constant measure.

Continuous as the falling sky, linked as the frames we see, as we are seeing from, good as we want to be.  Drug brother.  Little sister.  Mother fucker.  Mister Sinister.  It’s best to laugh a little when things go over you.  

That’s the most copasetic coping means, see.  The truest soul position is a rehash.  The shaved and polished chin against the puzzling pieces of outside.  A head held against the storm.  A dip we found and eventually rounded.