Wolf Feather

Cool air rains on my skin, I breathe it in. I am a boy of love, I am a poet of time. Always behind the sirens, moving serpent. Following the mysterious allure of the yellow crescent. I measure the wind by the movement of trees. Unparalleled anxiety is an RV running through me.

At every news broadcast on the Toshiba I am closer to the astrology of this idyllic place, closer to the voice of a daughter's coming maternity. Stars died in my eyes with a passing breeze. Now when I see the stars I keep them close to me, close to the twist in my stomach, to the Prima Spremitura I can taste hours after, the garlic and the vinegar. Drifting off. Tangerine leaks from my mouth, the dream's face, the beauty spot. The transformation begins, wake to sleep.

I speak of the same fervid self-destruction that is a bruise, resembling the Colosseum, with every intention of rising from the firm hold. I cut my body open for every thought, every experience, every memory.