The human sternum cracking as some wings
expand to burn to brown in sullen, heat.
Dear you, at this point I feel compelled to rush
away from trouble, to take the elevation
as we whisper our discreet. Love, you.
Sullen, heat, in weather suppurates the spine
just slows, you, down. I have a lie
telling to tale you. Dear you, how many
people are we? Love, you.
How many am I escaping in the high
loft of the sky within the sweaty
atmospheres I fluster at your privilege
ear to hear me question.
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