not dressed in the thunder of the storm—where the creel slips away from the fool.

Perhaps I only see the drunkening of a moment rather than its reason.

He should have carried it with two hands.

à minuit

psithurism, algedonic to the death strokes when she flutters, how she rises to meet me. I tire to the maniac violets, their ribs exposed in each idiot feather

last flower.

I dream between the blood from the womb; nature’s breast and bone; clavicle, ankle bones, alone she is unmisted to the shore, into Autumned dark. I dissociate.