As if it could have been empty
for Tim Yu

The fog contains a crowd. Half-gasping, no thickness. This is why we call that indexical this. There are many in each. All done up and pretty. Sucking face in polyester. Yellow teeth in empty lockets preserving reference. The smell of fried meat in trashcans on cul-de-sacs. The grinning pink pig. Thinking of it. Containing something vague. Something something makes. My “token supervenience base.” Golden arches preserved in the western latitude of my brain [sic]. "A future heirloom" from a remote location. One type of helmet softening up shrapnel. The landlord asks how the house holds together. The amp near the tv makes the screen green. There are passages with too much inhalation and they take up the horses and tie them.