Written by ©Mitchell Pluto August, 23 2021
Four word 30. It is always a half. Two more points reflect 6, 9 and back to a hidden 3 again. The clock hands do not hold the numbers. The zero is an egg without pressure or surface. Four words drift by. Pleasure, pain, value and waste. A cross, a star, an intersection, a direction. The world arduously spins a square into a diamond. You, me and us. Skin wrapped tight together and then loose again. Two spheres merge a chime into a flower. A room with rounded corners. An elevator opening each floor to each ceiling. An elemental spine, Damballa and Ayida. Evening and day. One tile with a pressed line between. A folded roof. A house under the waves of a patient moon. We are wake with weightless vision.
Mitchell Pluto 