To My Editor
Kill my children.
Muster every tool in your quiver to pierce
my thoughts and pin them
to the surface of my page
like a rare butterfly.
Crush these tangents
these graphite-penciled lines of thought
and cut them
to lustrous diamond.
Grasp them mote-by-mote
and reorganize their internal structure,
rehybridize the whirring charged clouds
and turn honeycombs to tetrahedra.
Let the changes ripple over my words,
across space and time
tearing away the false vacuum’s lies
and collapsing my writing
to its ground state
its ground truth