Styrofoam clouds lurch across Heaven,
Examined through a curtain of breath,
Steamed onto cold glass. And there’s
Tomirrorafrown) a narc stranded
Like a soldier trained for war
On the eve of a peace agreement.
Can metal taste fashion? I swear
The monitor is reflecting
Whatever I do,
But generic motions
Cannot be worth mimicry.
Said. Or don’t
I promise we can keep going.