Kunst-Wet

two intersecting lines radiate strings of heartbeats in four times double the directions secreting small agents into the surrounding streets & lanes transfers of desire stilt-legged voyages hour-burst rambles freshly-bottled smell of the underground random splices of muzac shred the dark corners of an interruption clock’s soundless alarm men follow women towards escalators triggered by their muffled boots the station entrance collapsing out into the waffle prints of passing tram-line desires meanwhile you’re down there stroking tokens that get stuck in the machine above our heads among the stars giant pulsing nuggets of steel erupt in longing while the red lights blink delaying our union by variants of minute-long bursts of motion this is the station called silence at which i long to get off with you so as to emerge into some blinding shower of certain life-affirming illuminations as blades of wet rubber hack away at the heads of screen actors we shoot our own minimalist movie under the smurf blue on white of kunst-wet this hyphen between breaths where electrons & whole atoms wander aimlessly plotting dotted lines on imagined vertical sheets of glass & of her far-flung snow-bound commune dappled with spots of rain love.