The potter’s mossy strokes balance there, my guide among the dead. There, my eyes flitter softly toward the virid buttered plant. Anger crunches with the naked grass beneath my head. It’s nesting in my diaphragm - the moldy foam seething but not at God; no, nor at you. Its righteous nails meet my own paling, now pink blooded thighs. My lovely, you could never be the object of this dancing wrath for you, you are always protected here inside my chest. You were the fly that buzzed buzzed buzzed for his enchanting mate; you were all the colors; you were the breath in an icy bane. But not the baker’s loaf, left untouched for months. You couldn’t be.
A moral soul groans inside of you but no innocent one. If you spoke in truth, how have you evolved so apathetic? If in riddles, how thumps a true heart? When the clock’s luster was all but gone, I squirmed to know yet this indifference, however conceived, became a gift. Although a barnacle on my mind, you no longer squander my feelings. Liberty appears in the expectation of an infection. They say the child loses her swinging pigtails when her fickle man absconds but I never give away what I know will be forgotten. My desire in part becomes a letter beneath a sunburnt stampede but this horcrux has a sister not dark, not sinister: love independent of you.
How did that hour hand lay a vanguard between the baker’s loaf and my eyes? It ticks, dust snowing from the iron; ticking, I hear it now. God, take me from the zany, debauched mediocrity. Mirth survives his humanity but God, please your face?
My overgrown nails extend into the stratus, their harvest bewildered. Each grasp eludes my senses though my eyes can testify that the dewey shapes remain. This confused kinesthetic assays the topography. Ah, the virid buttered plant atop the lawn is now inside evening’s lair. But how can my body acquire harmony in the first dimension? A pillow beneath me, green blades tickling me, I let sleep beset.
But then I realize I've forgotten to look at the stars.
