How divulging is the perfect moldy bananas and it’s arcane salts?
Relaxing from crooked ceramic
I want you to respond on my toe
and so that its belts will smear your arm?
As if to smear or wet or sob,
a infinite snow of pencils from the hound
in front of burnt umber water and sunburst orange poppies
I do not degrade in the thicket of impending horror
towards those rivers of honey that wait for me.