I wait on the cold, salt rain and death of an endless summer, my berserk fireflies and expanding web of the JorΕ, the Orb Weavers and silently grow the red chalky skeleton fern on the riverbank scorched with volcanic ghost-rock among the delighted elms and tiger-lily.
Things dissolve, manufactured and robotic arms of a crane digest a blemish and my broken smile every single day, my blue bruises on my face are horribly yellowing and almost black now.
Among the motherless and fatherless blots of pumice are strange petals on the lacquered and clay-like surface of a red planet, wild eyes to the sky, we're all in God's bell jar, windows with hanging roses, outside; a chromatic orchard in an unsweet world.