By all appearances, burned.
Blind yearning emits strange.
Dare the rapture. The corridor
muddled in a kind of shame.
I’m not in going a categorical failure but…
Still the blather coruscating midday
feel the honey in gaping,
burnished wound. Fluster drips,
a ribbon of oxygen ‘round the lips,
and steered indisputably wrong.
The long day out of gas-lit song
further when we imagine stimulus.
Go froth and at once… Quiver