archipelago: 3058
as they sat there in that water park which has hosted every flood in skokie, save the reservoir under the bowling alley, j3 tells m1 she doesn't believe the territory that surrounds the townspeople. there are outskirts, there are pleated boundaries, there is undiscovered personal space. m1 assures her these arms were made to hold, pointing to forearms and wrists and the boneslight, made most certainly of the chip of odd letting. m1 braces her spine, steadies her weight, seals his hands in the speak of empire. incubated from a bungalow off crawford and oakton, j3 slowly eases into the notion that pangaea was not long ago, was not without terrible motion. hers is the self-made dialect—spoken softly, carried in m1’s hands at arms-length, held out to mark the expanding universe. j3’s diatribes always involve flying—please wake j3 for the duty free. please wake j3 for meals. please wake her before land, the continents ablaze in agonizing drift. when m1 speaks, tectonics of vein let in more than water. j3, more than what is drawn on book covers, pleads with him to begin at the beginning, rather than this night in retro, in gradient time. tomorrow, j3 will be a fraction of a fraction farther from this point of contact. tonight, her back, an archipelago. m1’s fingers, no more water than well. among the wonderment of swing sets unable to weigh the world, m1 finally suggests that the last swift, a midnight yellow line through the water wells of this town, must know where his country ends and where hers begins. j3 remarks what they must have known since the sixth grade: the weight of the world themselves.
