Abide. Me, you, the plastering sun. We’re drinking champagne, it’s mental, we shouldn’t be blowing our reserves like we’re in a steaming alleyway. But every sip is functional: A pickle or popping vinegar; a preserve that laces, coaxes the staid, unwishing undercurrent, the frozen back spaces. Clear. A monument for the watching.
Now is clover, goldfish in dripping bags, any stray hair of light exampling their beating optimism, a goo to go. Took me away. Met me on the spur.
You surely lift the plumb. Glaucous; doubt covers our minds in its own natural wax. What cuts through is succulent, a part of the taste that always returns. A glycine we need for the building. To entrench. Laughing as we bend over.
They stare as if it’s something you can take back. No way. Gypsum as hard and form-fitting as cement. Adhesive, search your legs, you’ve found it. We’re globose, orbicular, bouncy. We’ve been hurt before. Done badly. No you’re not like that. You’re forgiving, enthused. It’s money, it’s wealth you know all that you can throw. I shouldn’t be so worried about locking it away: this time it won’t change it just can’t. You make a foothold of the tantric weather. The blades are so virile; this is the only garden, rosy and famous.