Assume that clapping hands will save us.
That the fruits of savagery
can no longer contain their nectar.
An occasional cloud wishes only to make peace,
a useful sentiment perhaps,
but one of which we are ashamed.
Those decomposing czars
have made their case through friable teeth.
Cool, so let’s give’em a show then.
See how they like the sight
of our opalescent skin reflected in the water.
The way our mutual breath unsettles.
Eventually, something notable
will reoccur on a further page.
Until then however,
we palpitate like nervous stars.