Paradise Stressed
Bells in our throats pressed
Tongues on the roofs of our mouths. Scent is a soft branding iron of felt, or moss, or a thick native american wine syrup, or a pincecone stuck in the honeycomb-like heel of my light brown hiking boots. I'll leave this all out to dry. Outside between oaks branch, chainlinked fence, damp couch on porch, cigarette, litterbox, sweet smelling grass. Hung dry.
Numbed in a distilled coma, falling into it, high on Ophelias last breath alone. Feels like when the fingers glide down a wet fishing net, grabbing for a minnow caught from a ditch in the front yard.
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