Poms: Für Leben"Anwar Basarah "
Pocketstones small of the back turned like twisted copper pairs crossed fields, scooped into your face resonant with alibis. There, below, soft circuit breaker, tidemarks of shock, salt conducting current, rivulets from orbs, another twisted strand but faced and separate.
Horizon Eventually, to free the soul (and mauled by flesh), you leave. return, leave. Never turning, it sparks in the void. combusitble mixture, separated from oxygen. smoulder
Rings sidereal conjunction with her lunar harvest under adjustable skies, heavy with comets, omened with jupiter, saturn's nodding, light-laden, and here? fire-fly flight, she wafts. turning, and back to back we float, slowly, burning
Re-fused stuffed into wet kindling saturated, stilled of fuses, letting heat roll off into briars, you've never struck a match that didn't fizzle with ergonomic energy. But now.... now.... passage of papers, on damp rinds, may not even be enough.