Here you have it
Right down your temple
A clipped chip
Smelling like nothing
In which untouchable is your imagination
And you heard it
A tiny explosion in the ear
A season of fine snow
Deleting your eyes of preciousness
It is hard
To be articulate
As consciousness
Emergent
In a minefield of yesteryear, and
Seedless Saturns
A vivacious detonation
Of flying gods of fertility
That do not yield
To stretch a little, you
A forest of moist vines remembers
Period Preparation Syndrome
