A glimpse which drags me toward—that frothing moment
Gasp; We’re almost dead—so nearly, nearly:
WE ARE!
Trite symbiloque and habadashed sorrows
thread between devising motives for that handshake in the
wash.
Take me there, that empty shelter covering fears
re-move sheaves
one by one. Twisting
back, a wave
goodbye—glowering redemption and preempted desire
trailer, hitch—inclined
sleeves unstitch
our spinning translucent halos
and a magazine.