(pulling lines from a few pages of nonsense)
I crunch a guitar into burned mushrooms, making room
for decibals too small to drown flaking-off fingernails,
drastically more bitter than yesterday. Chords build
webs like spiders, silk. Gymnopedie, and I am
the tingling piano. My future skin found mustard seeds
and a cup of water in amber glass. My mother's
favorite vine extends its little channels. I drop bits
of white chocolate on deliberate mounds built by ants.
Gold-sandaled youth bakes bread for the archers, the
mathmeticians, and those from Nova Scotia. "Keep it
low key," softly requested at dawn, the time meetings
always end.
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