sifting through aeons of green plums
we stagger in the hollow reeds of the wrong sun
under sorcery and utter love
ginseng in the choir of
our up above

we weave decay

we soon knit with icepicks, our idiot summer.
swinging from the chandeliers of our hovels
boiling rain
in ruby pots

delving into soft focus you can cut with a blade of gasp