“Not yet! But still… a stranger thing.”
Humming through the bellows lungs,
with a slow burn hungering the fever,
from your pucker’s ritual.
Waiting for the gravity of the charcoal
briquettes,to follow the scent down
dark hallways, where the bard reads,
the monjou, essay.
Tracing the psychology of your mind’s
chorography, dancing the bellows
with the crow, a low vibrato,
tasting the quill’s ink of your soul.
With dark sediments of the nightlight
where we are not yet, but always were,.
in silent drawers of the portmanteau.
“Not yet! But still… a stranger thing.”
