Charles IX medal commemorating the St. Bartholomew’s massacre. 1572

int has served me well
served silently though i
find some small satisfaction
of rain and it still rains

so, here: looking is no thinking
some bundle of typeerrors refuses multiplication
sequence-thinking iterates
of critique since said with still promise
to never despise all this thingyness
already the objects i know think too much
disappoint people in counting customers
know their way around! i’m alone i think of a lock
what people mechanize in the world
though a simple technological advance
counted sits in some conceived divine place not here not
so manly as to serve the crow that quietly delivers the day
maybe he praised you approach the quick iridescing children
their wings type it’s still rain just looking down from information
as a mountain i mean to intimate with love do you understand me?
i find behavior confidant and events undivine unlikely
a variety of typeerrors bloom into cheap aluminum
keys suddenly things are meant to click and begin
and do begin in fact without a single int