in my corner of smoke, the world is a thing on stilts
mesmerized by medallions of lost faith
at every pavilion's edge, where the ‘morrow is ever waning
like a plum in an orchard of leaving things.
a swarm of beautiful agonies, sown into the crease
of our everlasting desires.
in my corner of smoke, all things are visible
but Mondays drag tar across your tongue
like a molten snail.
we sing where it burns, nevertheless.
we have so many stars
we forgot
our balloons.