with practice a memory like a voice can be thrown into any unsuspecting object stop
each thought is a cone that depends on its opening at both ends stop
I need a few ants to appreciate the sugar-white of bed sheets stop

unfolding the paper crane won’t undo its allegiance to sequence stop
the features emanating from clouds are more fierce through my open window stop
each breath’s devotion to transparency fails to convert my flesh stop

I mark my room with all five of my senses but soon it is strange again stop
the intoxicating smugness of a black felt hat’s softness stop
pinholes pressed through paper fill immediately with shadow please advise