17: cedar shadow, waxwing warts

To lay in the moss, a cedar waxwing floating soundless back & forth over my body. A bed of goldspeck lichens, the tundra, cushioning me like alcohol. In the corners of my eyes loop-lichens play their paths, winding around their yellow-cored families. The dog-lichens chase them across the pale-bellied daisy; mount atlas rising in a distance through the fog. I feel a pinch and then the calm blood from the wound of a snapdragon, its wild dog-mouth bared but toothless. Meaning no harm. I take a bite from the devil's fig and share the rest with a goose lounging nearby in the snow. The world was covered with a fine spray of dot lichens, their frosty-rimmed thalli pricking the light. The roving morning and dot lichens now in shadow; a cascade of soft warts across my sleeping skin.

there to wrinkle around his eyes

prettylittle, 71 to 75

There to die thinking fast I’ll be, with you always. Fast I’ll be with you always. And just cold enough to live for looks. In letters, to live. To trek a journey I am. With talking and feeling I have been here four nights. The origin he is. The universe. But I feel of some figs I should figure.

More obvious a walk, I should only.

The egg out then, the solar system a cheese of some kind. A favor and we’ll be turmeric coterie. What do you see?

Waiting on our way away, and red with such potential future. Wishing badly on the bedsheets. Interests & tastes, on this island last. Burn sage familiar in my ears, especially obvious. Smoke talking terms, thinking exclusive of others. Tell me what you’re seeing.

And listen like we could, undulating on the crepuscular little wrinkles around his eyes.