I make time for ideas that unfurl along the slender stalk
of tongue.

4:23 am

A cloud of steam sits on the mirror like a strange

white parrot on the shoulder of a pirate.

Ripe fictions fall on soft December 

ground.

Untraceable: the trajectory of body unraveled

like a cotton ball.

A crimson chasm - spread wide open from edge to edge -
gorging on your presence.