I.
A placid state with little movement in the streets; an abysmal quiet suspended from the ear.
To beat the setting sun, to catch maybe a glimpse of fire oozing through those icy sapphire husks.
Fast now over brick-work; legs are loose, distended cords and the body is all physics.
Portends the evening with it's sky peeled back like the rind of a spoiled citrus.
Clouds run long against the rot.
II.
Within dreams, a derangement of sense - a cascade of image and feeling like the textural seething of insects- a kaleidoscope of the transpersonal, each living painting etched by fire into an inner night.
A hunger strike invites the hollow; folds of flesh transform the pattern.
III.
To seethe inside a dream of silk. A cobwebbed dearth of insect light. Of silent mirth.
IV.
In the ocular night, all is sound.
The seething of light becomes texture and weight upon the base sugars of an apple core.
Where the ants are not marching triumphant, but seething in time.
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