You spend afternoons with homonyms . . .
connecting dots of primordial images with the speed of a python . . .
In the free-weight room at the gym . . . language evolves . . .
The blinds withdraw . . .
Amanuenses appear . . . for St. Valentine's Day . . .
You continue to pump iron . . .
adjusting the sweats you took a shine to . . .
without a sense of dread . . .
The costume . . . as Book of Days . . .
as notations sanded smooth by prevailing winds . . .
runs deep . . .
Close encounters of some kind ensue . . .
You tap your smart phone to the beat of his/her enunciation . . .
Three sets of 12 reps, yes? . . .
You are reminded of . . .
those times . . . late at night when you . . .
enraptured by your Kindle . . .
keep adjusting its brightness . . . for better or worse . . .
