Marginalia

Grew a fruit tree in the foreword. Fat

pears on thin stems buried underground

to ferment a thesaurus for you. We

made too many ways to tell ourselves:

this is a race track; it is all infinite. Look!

Circle, bowl, cycle. Record, wheel, tire.

Pattern, sphere, revolution. Endlessness.

I hoard words like fruit. On my shelf, 

covet: chickpea, alarm, mail, lineage,

envelope, entropy, yellow, wool, leaf,

flower, rabbit, trees, and me and 

you.

The whole of it is that a fruit tree grew, 

rooted through the footnotes, and I watered

pears with dictionaries. You ask, who am I?

but the answer is a synonym. Synonymous,

we are all just big stories we tell each other,

we are all just rolled up fashion magazines,

we are all just headlines, sometimes. 

Another word for infinite is 'absolute.'

A synonym for absolute is 'unabridged.'

Unabridged, we have no padlocks. Our

stories all read, our money all spent, our

tea all brewed.