This is the story of two brothers whose neglect earned neglect and who lost what they could have had.
This is also a gallery for two who were at the same time firstborns.
This is thirdly curation by triage rather than triangulation. The artifacts lower themselves into their edges and they let the air run between them.
There is one twin who feels elegant in uniform and a different twin on whom his habit sags like chains.
With the death of an icon and no trust from the tragedy, they will fight for an abstract paradise through the falsification of a will.
Concerned for their collective economy, and concerned for their estate, they set out in search of new representations.
 The second twin will say he feels a synthesis as though his brother aired a chemical and he breathed in neon light, and that the sound is steely and the light inimitably green.
 And the first twin will cut and see miles of shelves, storing in his clenches the manifesto of utilitarian things repeated.
 There may come one moment when the brothers regard the television’s dancing performer apart to give each other privacy during the looking.
 Integrated into a constant eyesight, the seeing feeling pressed into what granted vision in the first place, the fascination recedes into the bounds of its glass back corkstop – and abstractly again a televised recollection unsettles a memory.
 For one brother the life feels firm again and his mother’s tight lips like a rope for him to climb and create at once.
 The second brother will name this a downward living – downward in a concrete way, as she was not cremated and has a tomb – and worry that the thick paint on her lips from the old portraits she commissioned should not be what he sees as he looks at the lines in his thick hands.
 But each will be happy with the surveillance they choose and the morals it relieves them of, and can think themselves morally joined as the dancing feet shapes flip into their identical eyes.
 At last they can remember the ground and sink into it, seeing themselves above and below, and forward and back, beside the plot of their mother’s and the lowering down.
 In the eyes of twin two the space grows into the round and its cracks draw his gaze to the crowd. And so first a lawyer is referenced neatly – “he’ll want to set us straight…” – but one form in the street of a girl with an elliptical walk with a rip right along the collar of her blouse will attract them enough that their progress will freeze for a moment.
 The problems of matter are multiplied. “Is that a crack in your window?” He goes to the pane and it feels like a liquid. – “I’ll get them cleaned next week.” The first twin stops, rapidly monklike, arranging the paper-cuts splayed like a hand of cards as if sacrament.
 Suspicious of the traps of distractions, next it is the cactus beside the window put at issue. But with one disposal already in the works, the cactus will stay and since the cactus cannot be cleaned the monk will be tempted to cover it and puncture the will-strips over the bristles to let each piece touch as in a chain. – “Now we can start with the new one,” the first will say and cross his hands again to calm his brother into religious delusion.
[X1] Finally – well-seated into the Newtonian moment, forces disclose their guise of equilibria. The second brother saw the late icon in atomic situations: The girl had walked on and his mother is in the grave. The girl had glanced up and his mother had written a will. And this building stood like a trowel in the ground so that it could ascend with curtain glass gleaming at sundown, and his mother had pressed hard into the nub of her pens so that the ink would gleam with insinuations and shut each curtain into a wall.
[X2] As for the forgery of the will and its new system, while his brother sat with his eyes closed and carried his pen in circles like tracking hours in falling sand, the first win lay into the depression eked out by a fraudulent poetics
* a palindrome every w sentences
* assonance to consonance ratio x:y
*alliterative phrase every z characters
And as his brother determined the draft he began to lisp phonetic tautologies like the idiot boy Frank downstreet to whom his mother had left her collection of Rosette Stone CDs.
[X3] And still all is at equilibrium. The calm mortician recrafts the will while the tremulous monk redeems it all, all of it in his perverse poetic lilt.