This are odd creatures

by Jason Nelson

One Series Two

Gone are the empty things. Areas, rather than places, filled with understatement, covered in landscapes green or hollow must. As something always is the must for something. I can run in simple rolling boils, from heat and the friction of water. A stream is always empty first. And the second moment from within each last step comes for ours or yours or theirs. I’ve had a fifteen minute head start for well under ten minutes. And I’ve seen the need’s quick beginnings. And I still, not still, but now. Now when things need things for each sudden way.

A way away from gone.

Three Series Four

Digit changes the chemistry. Swirling numbers create the instant from motions inside or throughout the burden. A burden of plus and minus, in fractions with tumbling denominators. Not that the instant knows piped-in music, swelling from vibrations. Not that not is the sense. In senses come the packages or thoughts or packages. Nerve fibers make shirts of fibrous notions, started or ended along lines left and right. The only memory, in which chemical’s revolve, is sound, when sound is the first digit.

Five Series Six

Distance nears the limiting field. Fielding for needs in blue for refraction. Light or the needs near base, with long and longing twists. Turns call blue in distract, and refraction crushed the mile. By five thousand two hundred and eighty feet comes, by inches and the toss of notions. A notion worn about or calmed with the sun’s last pull, pulling in measured distance.

Seven Series Eight

Clear when under or carries the over, and each is its own derivative. Derived in a slow capsule, each can break its each within the task. Or task needs a binding way. In a blink, binding stands the stalk, and in root’s tired admission comes away. Away in the pulling turn, not meant for the changed diameter. If three hears another switch from the each or the over or under, then three won’t combine in the usual form. Formed in an instant, when instant’s remains aren’t clear.

Nine Series Ten

Simple wears enough of contrasting, without cavity contrasting the holes . And the hole wears enough of bracketing’s steel, bordered in over. Or under feels the sinking draft and draft. Without each and the each arching curve comes time and the binding of dots. Digital to the remains, when cause gives way. Then steel falls for task’s own fallowed bind. A bind for which its fall is simple.

Eleven Series Twelve

Grow pulls the soil. Past the ideas in nutrient’s unbuttoned, button down cold. Temperature is aware of the stamen or pistil or the need. Needing the difference in bounce, in the volume of air’s understanding that difference gives rise. In friends of pressure and wind, of a simple bench, sits dirt or roots knocking. Doors asking hinges ask. Season’s open by a twist of pressure left by the tilt and angle requested by gravity. When nine meters per second squared doubles, then nine meters per second squared swells. Swelling on fears for leaves’ own faith to grow.

Thirteen Series Fourteen

Spiral maintains its existence, whether matters or matter. For worse in tandem is worse in turn. Tripling deems the rush unfair, in the fairest time, with time understood as time. And every hand jumbles the number, as numbers move through the resistance of springs. Gone is the relative coil. Gone is the much and matter, first and second beyond the catch, catching spiral.

Fifteen Series Sixteen

Series seems the essential, carried or closed with sides. Against the over and then the corner, I ribbon time. And under each cavity comes drawn. Drawn away in the derive. I am the spiraling digit, grown clear from the distance, a way away from gone.