This narrow, wheat stalk pleasure
resonant with wet, terpenic ghosts.

This silent space
like single, pure notes
of wrung indulgence.

This impoverished conductor,
his cello orchestra
tuned each at half-key intervals
in slack-jaw symphony,

Where, pinned with taxidermist proof
against tenantless wall,
where remnant shadows
substitute for lovers —

This glass jar of dried flowers,
crushed petals brackish, black,
curled like swirling strata
of fossilized bones;

These layers of love
you sift through expertly,
where even the whiplash comedy
of your tongue can not dissipate
frail moments we turn
facing, hiding behind
smiles of yesterday.