a love for spearmint, for the burgundy red
They reverberate their
under the withered moon of catastrophe
a strain on the blueberry sky.
the sky’s sparkling with fractured light
the champagne has bubbled our heads
A moth in the sink is
Not a broccoli
You are still there.
losing memories like leaves
pushing my bike down the lane
the crunchy gravel sounds delicious
they call you
Strange, little boy.
Unwrapping the tinfoil, Oops, the intonation of a sentence / is overcooked; the content of a sentence is / meaningless.