A presumption of crush
we intersect with diligence,
figures uplifted, fracture holding.
Too up in arms for a fragrant lust.
Mistrust assuming the posture
of an accident in progress.
Some time where no synapse speaks
of its own power to construct.
Us we form by reticence, by
fingers hot with touch.
Deja vu everywhere,
it sits in kindness and fat
and spares naught.
The look… Unfolding itself,
uprooting all calculation
with a threatening sense of purpose.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 