parametric

I’m not sure when this started

exactly.

Ash growing into cinder,

meal dripping into grain,

the drops of kerosene

slithering through dryer vents

and the pipes that connect

the bathtub to the earth.

I’ve lost track of why

a disposition automatically

is premonition

to common sores.

Stark linens rubbing against

daybreak,

secreting the stripes

of musty morning.

I don’t like rubber

and things that only take two,

standardizations of what is

my only panoramic view

of faces

mustard on rye.

I learned to say “Thank you

very very much”

in Fanti, so that when the sound

collided against the mortar,

the kind in between bricks

or like plaque,

it might sink in better

the different syllables

and ways of saying

going backwards..