UNDERFORCES

a late-steaming heap of late faces,
etc. thousands deep.  the ice pelts
they all wear, a substitution for air,
a substitution for being unheld.
i thought or knew that it could resolve,
the pile.  also the pile’s problem;
the information was waiting on me
in a different part of my mind,
but the port misaligned.
my mind moves.  it begins to sort
so quickly that it becomes a knife.
it may be the knife of us, now that i
am in the organform hill. but
i find myself in here without a schematic
of will, or of joints between
the spinning pieces that can
click into channels when they meet.
this is still.  the stillness is
misassembled complete.