Tomorrow is a sliver of custom
and today is just tradition seating the young for fairy tales written in Sanskrit.

she sees through the veil, only because the water split by divine intention,
and confusion is left beached and butchered in a slab of brain meat way up there--
trapped in the solstice of carrion baggage and the summer months of mind.

I wonder if she'll forget me
as the morning singes the corners of the earth and crumples whatever idea I had of nothing
and nothing and nothing and nothing

reminds her, exist only in detail, in prose:
so roses are red, violets are blue,
eruptions occur, and the water sees you

the water sees you.