gonna shake these spirits right outta my limbs

and falling through the trees. scratchety scratch scratch; that tiny place at the corner of my eye. the crook where my memories glow like flies.

its better up here
its better up here

///than down at the bottom of a well\\\

when you see the moon once a month, and you hear the crow(nine times it caws),,, you want the water, you want the sky, you take the kaleidoscope of stars [forgetting how far,how irrepressibly radiant,] you take it for yourself. into the hollows, but lose it to: the yawning, the purple and green of morning. every. last. time.

id rather to the pink and blue. the brown-red-blonde. a remembered sigh forgotten before its over. lose it all to the hand on my chest and your breasts drawn (in dawn) against these ribs