Then one day our skin shed and our
organs misted, all that left was buzzings.
And some post-molting wore their old coats
like necromantic cyborgs, and some buzzed together to a bee.
But it took only one ghast accumulating of intertwined
perpendicular lines, the spider before the egg
who could fly across the Ouroboros gagging a new,
and cut the threads of astral, crimson nebulas anchoring
our time.