And in this montage sequence    you, more than ever, become
my supernova-like nostalgia with all those disposable cameras
strapped to your chest    Your cellophane
skin expands    expounding upon the mystery
of comedic timing    (Somewhere off screen in the city: Death
trading in his scythe for a cellphone    skinny pants painted on,
his cloak left in the closet)    Please no more
dick pics    becomes a thing the personified universe    that pile of phantom
limbs    says to itself in the mirror, buffing out the steam    (more often
than it would like    but not without the implicit understanding
it’s all just part of the deal)    After a strobe light shower,    everything shines
like the afterlife    Watching you    skeet shoot aerosol cans
from the roof of your garage    the night before    your very own
meteor shower and my texts —         the blurred things they were saying at the time