Compose

Meringue ankles.

I asked it to embalm the sun and all of our laws.

 

Chiffon digits.

I asked it to feed the starving constellations shivering in celestial gutters.

 

Clouding senses.

I asked to drink as well, to drown and hallucinate.

 

Improper science:

I asked for it to manifest.

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Equinox

One hemisphere

is a coppery heat

when each carnival

syllable festers in

organoid labyrinths.

Burrows. Pops up

its polyester tents

 

like scarlet groundhogs

shedding hunters

with the seasons:

animal lungs balloon

in their pockets, emptied

of iron. How rich

 

is your soil—

your blood—

that boils its few coins

to the autumnal stutters

of clanking hearts

and gunmetal tongues.