my golatha is mewling in the fringe. lemon rinds polished.
my credenza dust-laden and perfect. like an old promise in moon gingham.
and all of this conjures a portable god and a night kingdom of uproarious gunthers
plundering the under-whim of our daily crisis
by loving the pitch of the sea.
and siren wishes-
privately.

all of this twice and again the world in which to fathom it.
our astute breach of contract, expanding into quadrants of unanswered questions
with all the panache of pandering, to a blush of summer on a ghost’s lips.
all of this always. like a concerned amnesia in absentia. open mind adjacent to a constant door… and a bronze myth.

Myth-Behaving.