dry and entering a shepard tone;

endless summer, sauntering, and my inner thighs are (yawn) raw from the sauntering.
endless spring, thawing icicles into
endless christmas morning.

this is not lavender, this is brighter;
i’ve underestimated everything.

suckerpunched into the bend of me,
deepening my lean to an acute degree,
like balled fist, like fortress, like fetus: potentialities.

wild chance is a hellmouth
salivating—