thunder cackles in the morning a witch is a woman with any amount of wisdom your words are as bland as coffee and the dandelions are talking for i am permanently amused by vicissitudes and antelopes and aggregates of moods feelings and isotopes hanging by psychotropic ropes firmly financed by our fingertips lifetimes triangulated in transitions farm the fallow fields and try to heal the poppies dropping numbers and putting aside our copies a simulacrum of similes and shortages as field mice and farmhands dance on saturn’s rings despite all of jupiter’s complexities your complexion is never shallow and i swallow seawater to embrace the sweet finality of life