Towards the light then that summer defosit slung harshly lunging -- that summery black, sniffling at this and that caught cat-handed landing sitting, little mess save the tangled bodies
You wound, whistling summer winds. Refined in the licking. Eyes couldn’t unstick me, pressed as tight on you as that dress in Aberfeldy. Still, there’s no god who wouldn’t rip that tablecloth to find pallid pine over cold centurion ardure: the amo, amas, amat of centuries buried under floor.
The wind there sang right through -- I have the photograph framed hanging by Patrick’s dogged breath, framing the summer’s cold green in fairer isles.
God there’d be little Quaker hope left without the blooming of another spring. Towards the mountains then but stop before you go, take stock of my eyes. I’m chancing my arm, watching you disappear into the haze of the light.