there’s a silver chain 

in your flower pot that 

had me spend my half-reality 

interfering / I swam from the dock 

timed by an oblivion 

across to corn stalk veneer 

A field humming an ancient blue 

dimensional love stutters 

sudden clouds form the 

shape of barbed wire chokers 

unusually I reckon we 

hung from a strand / wetting four legs 

bracelets dipping into a drink and 

within moon cycle 

spit touches down 

enshrining punk shows 

quietly blitzing obsidian tile 

windows soaking themselves in gloss

from cloud thorns / legs begging to 

sort into the exhaust 

chemtrail plumage thriving 

above the wildcat hills