Twos, and threes, a silent shove, a laugh, lost, late at night, a-get-down-on-my-knees to drift away, from undreamed-of phylogenies. We stayed up late.
We ate the bitter to keep us sharp, tart for the inane, to get out kid gloves and listen to the drip drip lost sips of acid, a tonic of trudge, of slipping in the mud of a wet trail.
Clamouring for the drier higher ground, the twos and threes come in time, echoing at night echoing strain, a wet trail’s mud.
We at the bitterness to stop the silent shove of a late-at-night strip-tease, and maintain a pinch of tact, as the waves come in twos and threes, to announce the rising of the seas.