Nor about what

This is my future isthmus.
 I took the noodles off my ears and started making pasta.
 His hands wriggle disconsolately out of his neck,
 Where the heart is. There and place, under the sun.
 Ripped jeans from edge to edge,
 The first snow in the last tram
 Falls. As luck would have it, though, in may.
 
 Hold on to the handrails of these high-rises,
 See off the proud birds and count the days until the flight.
 Rustling curtains new day,
 And he hides a photo right under my skin,
 Made sideways.
 
 Good in your thin varicose hands
 Holding a pot of gerberas.
 I'm not aware of all the events, but I'm sure,
 It's time to go from mono to stereo.
 
 Kweli branches to the window and holds out a plum,
 At night sharp breath frost sadanul.
 I didn't know where to start all these songs about nothing.
 And combined all the lines into one.
 
 Deaf planes buzz over asbestos,
 On the last flight, sending this gut.
 Today I spat at the poet.
 And he hit himself.