And arrived. The night was infor­mal, the date—escapes us. A bad wind break­ing down
the debonair dia­logue: so that you can hear your­self at all—is now epic, now war­like

is how crowds inhale: meters of syn­chro­nized Spi­der Lilies lus­ciously unfold­ing. In time
will be screams. Under skies the color of dancer. Mar­tyred Pen­dant branches, casting

grandiose shad­ows on bewil­dered heads—blurring blue, vel­vet, white, vel­vet; The date
means the world to us. Like water: twelve bells seizure, which is to say one can­not stop

and so much of what we are—requires facts, who fain be under­stood, to diffuse—and
vice versa: I should’ve been around more (attempts the echo) in a bet­ter place (spell

last resort) the bou­quet, every­thing is lovely. Spoke the scathing—but in all real­ity just
unbear­ably alone roman­tic, out of nowhere, or dead cen­ter of a dozen riot­ers: count them.

which is to pray: a dropped sign is more than ‘pocket change’ to a wish­ing machine; one
needn’t cor­rupt a moment to make it one’s own, but might as well. Falling apart, behind

a picket fence the shade of sur­ren­der: a guest-less host, lost in the thought of how dye
wears (when drained from the tabloids, and returned to its right­ful flower) as a symbol…

is how begin­nings are embod­ied: while our kings, our lovers, emanate a dumb­struck but
deter­mined alle­giance to the dark­est longing…or the abysmal allure of a pretty invitation

depend­ing on the length of one’s hori­zon… The day crime rates bow to a heav­ier moon is.
The day when a mir­ror at breath-hour: looks long­ingly back instead of scent­lessly forward,

to reverse the fluid lev­els—rush—who killed that vehi­cle: we await. The thing is, I’m not
afraid: the mid-intermission actress whis­pers, clutch­ing the cur­tain, makeup like rain, of…