Where do you think you're going with your fur
so fuzzed? You could be the secret the world
loves, stained glass box burgeoning with wire
and piano keys, the instruments of regret. We
interview silence, but silence varies its answers,
offers stasis, an airspace unstitched. We
prescribe for each other the soaring belief that
Easter will cure our ills, sip without a swipe of
alcohol Corona from a Pepsi can. O Eros!
Where do you think you're going with your
regrettable structures, your hauled-up
nightshade and next-galaxy conspiracy theories?
It's been nigh on X many years since I walked
away, your body cold for the last time, skinned,
but okay.

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