the ink has set. and the knives forged in the clutches of butterflies
confound the weather. there is nowhere and where you're at.
nothing in-between, so the vertigo is inevitable.
we are shiny pennies on the corpse of Time.

marvelous things are awake when you're asleep
and they slink in the twinkle, maneuvering amid the myriad
and the clouds that wash their hands of you
never let it rain. so you scorched your cornea
in a vacuum.

and you forget that, every day.