In Whom You

Hum, not harrumph, between particulates.

Is there any envy capsizing 

the taut points pointillistic held in

tangential frames? I suppose you factor

into my ferocious thinking, my ibid 

estrangement with context as we know it.

Slithery weather forms distilled instances

of sleet about to turn into sheets or walls.

Are you vengeful, will you be caught 

meandering through tissues of issues 

where the page disintegrates to powder 

at the touch of a finger thumbing through 

fragile syllables on the threshold of 

becoming words meant to linger past weather.