The season dies
in lampshade light
I crawl from the shelter
I have made in bed

My intent is shrouded
like the sun is clouded
I know I felt her
before all of this

It was convincing
she insisted
on an expensive retreat
from the earth, as it is

So while the plants sing
and the intuitive collapse
in heaps
Sonne laughs at the bruise
she creates and keeps