We are elaborate animals made of wood earth, flowing like water into the veins of the sky.
The sun being a fist of lava, and the night being an enticing molar—we are a succession of tides, being swallowed by successions of day; and how beautifully we wilt in the presence of joy.
The moon may be nothing but a luminous stone
and to eat the poetry of it is how one chokes on love
but the romance of morning is that if by midnight you are alive, that is joy.