right. humdrum as our prerogative, inventing the day
athwart blown iron-filings, swift from the sill, not
massive like the worlds. talk of kilometres? thrusting
gravity between clothing & sky i’m a narrative grandly
& the nettles lurking subtext. holding your little hand
we rounded on the placid thatch of roses – wooded layers
an impractical sticky hexagon. directions, any compass
you’d face holds a secret population, their own quests &
churches telegraphed. our crawling sprites worship a swan,
a thing never seen this side of slagged real-estate, this fiscal
garden, at least. move along love: desist purplish intrigues
with batteries & that tightly focussing torch. we’d face all
tunnels together – boredom a duress. yeah.