Couldn’t decide whether to keep my eyes closed for sound or open for sights. The oxytocin must have come off me in rushes. I could feel words and music up my skin, enter, tug celiac plexus, reach into dream landscape, file itself at the memory theater, spill from the fountain at the center of town square, flood the green room with furniture, splinter glass along the moonflower vine, project onto crumbling brick wall, stir the leaves, swim the echo over treetops, hide in fox holes to surprise me later after bathing in the lake. I’m still finding scribbled scraps of paper in abandoned nests, warning me of hunters. You magicians, you.
Love is holding lust’s mouth open in suspense. Sublimation efforts end in mended zippers, planted blueberry bushes. Paisley gas mask collages with mushrooms, dear god.
How can I thank you? Thank you.
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