soup thin the wind and the telescope now.
you have no discernible soul. just a parlor trick -
and a moon gone fishing.

the withering is how we contain the accident
the cold front is massive and we have no gears
to run the fables -
that our stars
glob.

keep to the wisp in your spleen,
sink teeth only in starlight
and red snow.

that rain in your skull
is the aftermath
of a private
joke.

and there is no telling
laughter, why it
hurts*.