Snowflakes scraped underneath fingernail tips When the charcoal was pressed harder. As often as the cheetah runs with the crocodiles by the nile They do not look for each other.
As often as the bees sing Only once could they muster poison and sting With a clockwork, shelter and carpentry of honey. The fruitness of a living body.
The sound that gets lost in the woods Gets lost and carried Flying through the whispers between the branches and twigs. All the creatures are all but lost Yet the striking fur Shocks Hunters into firing hot shells across and the falcon fell.
A shouting cull The silence that meant that wildly blooms have been collected. A bouquet was calling the passing hours Wrapped in the scraped white spirit of the wooden towers.