My mouth is the shell of a fish —
a slow flower of a bird.
Gray flower.
Ashen flower, like a breast sprung from the word of a fish.
Vine crystallized in the spasm of a vague and splendid wing,
a blow of mouth in the reflowering of the flower
in the fields strained white —
a blow born of nothing,
into the drowsiness of the shell.
Words watering in the mouth
toward the ether of the bird —
the quiver of the flower in the fish.
May 29, 2025
May 29, 2025 at 9:30 AM UTC
My mouth is the shell of a fish —
a slow flower of a bird.
Gray flower.
Ashen flower, like a breast sprung from the word of a fish.
Vine crystallized in the spasm of a vague and splendid wing,
a blow of mouth in the reflowering of the flower
in the fields strained white —
a blow born of nothing,
into the drowsiness of the shell.
Words watering in the mouth
toward the ether of the bird —
the quiver of the flower in the fish.
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