after an oil spill mowed the lawn for eleven an hour, tiny migrants crowded the greenhouse gate. the bug ****** moonwater muddied the steps of the tenderhearted community (of seed undertakers), and made its way by means of caked rubber into the cytophotocycle, where the moonwater volatilized. liquid volery. vivid luck. awoken like post-dream nap perspirants - oneiroceiving precipitate; the greenhouse grew murals in condensation, the accidents si quieros. a misty opacity attrited like deskinning a spider, with a definitude of exo scaling tons; memories shed, shies misled.
⌂ the greenhouse stands where a glacier once slipped, clumsy as steadfast could be. foreign fruit fits inside it. it knows not what it grows.
🌢 the moonwater was salt-lipped for a while. where it passed through, it was soiled.
you’d be surprised how many things hit glass. the moonwater didn’t realize what volume seizes space until it heard its kind on the outside. from the inside. Venus has a reassuring kiss when a drone is dampened. there were three rows for puddling; one for naps, one for not naps, and one for knotted gnats laying hot eggs in lustrated bloom. flume frustrated. somewhere far up the chain, a worn-out manager ordered inventory off-brand, and enchanted a horticultural hobbyist. the devil is ennui and god is curiosity.
⌂ there could be a greenhouse next door, but it would be an accident, a leaky shed with errant sprouts. as it would seem to my lustrous heart. lagging and callous.
🌢 the moon was uninterrupted that night. mighty sky drifters never passed between them. like a parent with patience or a friend with faith. like a husk that stole your pose.
the maceration was mutual with leaky infusions of purpose and imagination materializing into groundskeepers that tamed the pressure of an ever encroaching periphery. one time the moonwater nearly fumed its way dry after a political candidate entered the greenhouse with scissors promising bonsai. but pesticides pass by. and pictures of fabric mean less than bird song or beetle guides. for the frame never mattered to the moonwater. no more than a furnace in winter, than a flower in summer.
⌂ when it comes time for the greenhouse to deracinate, to throw her vines like limbs over garden walls and access roads, eye to eye with cumulus monoliths; her moonwater sweat will slip through the glass glue and slide down to her fingers . . . to feel what she feels
🌢 i love pooling here 🌢 i love steaming and raining here 🌢 i will love being the halo in your refraction
a love poem spawned from thoughts on meticulousness and maceration.