It starts in your trachea, or the stairs: unresisted air is easy. A fist hammers out the approximants in the chest, out the door. The body inhales, defenseless against desire: typographical lungs annotate oxygen. Each letter is a collapsed sac, starving to inflate. The word respiratory writes itself without permission across the tiles. Recreation myths form more distinct than the cardiac notch, motion observed in the anterior soul: a small plot of childhood kitchen, pounding in. The left hemisphere suggests a structural absence in the unstill-life—punctuation in the bedroom. With enough air, you can diagnose your own construction. There’s a pixelated chamber in the superior lobe, where a subject is on a computer monitor, discerning in the office whether the disembodied voice of the revision is familiar. Syntax calcifies along cable cords hooked to the ceiling; odd geometry rises in low contrast. Typing this way, everything becomes redemptive—or at least nonlocal, airborne. Something else with wings flies out the house. How many strange regions once resided within you, like giant moths clung to the window, like velvet static you obscure, then resurrect, then forget again.
How to Resuscitate a Sentence, Or April
