styrofoam raze a pink piece of polystyrene foam has blown into my back yard. it changes shape depending on where i stand. from this vantage point, it's the number seven. over there, it's the twelfth letter of the latin alphabet. uppercase. taken from the side, it's an unclothed arm. i can see the median cubital vein snaking through the anterior aspect of the elbow. i ask the index finger what it wants me to notice, forgetting that synthetic flesh lacks the internal mechanism necessary to form units of meaning. if i swallow what i cannot coax into speaking, will all its thoughts bleed into me? or will i only choke on chivalry and the absinthian sting of my soul's extinction? 260523 what's it to you? who go blather from