my heart is a dark, warm bread
It's San Andreas' Fault!
Meet me in the middle, on the Bullen discontinuity
Siderophiles streaming around my neck and on to my color bones
Beholden to- the wild ivy sneaking up the walls of a vila on a strada
Dreams are as an entangled cassette tape brain to be rolled back into euphony with a Ticanderoga eraser pencil
before we are awaken.
I shall indirectly join rituals of affection
Transferred to me and smeared over my both wrists, the miasma of deteriorating printing ink on sooty pages bound in leather covers is my newfound and full bodied perfume.