i am not chora, i don’t want chora. here in hedra, there is the movement between the chora, like the lisp of seas beneath continents. i rush from song to the next, holding my breath.
i’m not choral, keep my hedra below the clouds, space up my sleeve. in this place, gravity dims. pangea words begin to separate from my meaning.
you go bowling?
i go bowling with Apollo
a pair of guise