our holy coronation
has fallen into the inkwell.
it splatters. it is primal.
it stains as it enters
to transcribe lines of
sapphic poetry. no one
is a lover alone. what is shelter
without a body receiving the
thermodynamic tendencies of
an atom dance?
the veins are etched in our lungs.
how unstable the collisions.
how sonic. how real
!