Many afflictive states many points of view many controlled zones from Monday to Saturday I don’t know where you are. I don’t know what leafy settling will be visible when we wake up with the trees hung upside down and rooting into sky. Maybe there will be cake-dreams of me tomorrow: the finite source of urbane love.
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A potent round of milk in a cup, a greatness I never felt before, the alphabet-letters of your name spiral and escalade in clicks of my tongue and what is the wolf but the burning, what is the burn but the letters bubbling to the rooftops and popping to nothing.
But here is something: I walk home in the dazzle. The backs of the terraces blow violet. My every cell burns to rest on you.
Theme music for December, month of the Wolf Moon. Yes.