Like a pin on a spike
the dim light creaks dull bright
and fungus glums in the 'tween
as it might... and a yearling takes a day
to bring about the long, wrong night
as amber drools
from the lungs
of a stunted
kite,

the
wind is an idiot
pruning the sun
from a
suspect
sky.

how we talk in the interim
is nuts, but the lust
excels.
it grooms the pollution, and yes
it threatens the fresh blood
of our last regrets.

but... yes

fathom the windmills
of our mangoes
as a fruit -
Less.

some other joy that -
has a boy gone
more less
than
kept.

and
crease the wrinkle
in your starlight
to moon  

if not to
breath