In perfect circles we spoke. No virgins to Ellipse but faithful
to the radius of our doom, like a choir to a Chamber
of Remarkable Silence.
Like a backwards whisper
into a megaphone
lodged in the ear of a deaf god
that gets the gist
but never the urgency.
we slept with flames on the inside.
and bled through walls like a stain
aping Picasso without Wallpaper’s
consent

Emerging from the tundra of music
at the kernel of indefinite stars.
full blown glasswood
from a furnace
with all
eyes.

we sustain our love
by wounding wounds
until they see Us
for who We
are.

This love in
a jar.

As is. So far.