Drunk in the wake of her sweet cicely

draining her hubris
scooped out from a fossa
in her top of the world
tidings

post hoc, ergo propter hoc
as the night, handcuffs the suns lam

I too, am a obdurated feather
riding a shrapnel trovatore cadence
cariole by a phantom Akhal-Teke

caught in morrow’s attrition
may we reap the fester
of our vermeil runnels

where ever in a purge
our scars shall burgeon
educe I
in luna’s reflux,

drinking down the distilled
nimbleness
reaping wrapped ataraxia
from your euxine
homicide

as your balm
mimics terra firma,



eppur si muove.