Murder
of crows, breaking through dimly lit
tunnel entrances—Flinging violet pedals
from their wings. Caricatures, drawn on
cheap canvas—all my friends lining the walls
of my otherwise barren hall. Shaking you up
like a liter-o’-cola—Farva blowing his lid. Steaming
up and out, a sauna brimming out a crooked door.
I’m going home. Waiting for bad news and a phone
screeching through that contemplative silence. Freckles worn
like archipelagos on the face. A plethora of multicolored sun beams
radiates from the diamond. Pearls hang from Nuit’s arched back, glistening
with starlight—a planet revolves around a long forgotten celestial body. Ra
had his time, now is the age of the child.