Domus - - CONFETTI -

The siren is mono­tone, a strain from a Ne­an­derthal bone flute. fold in the man­ner of ac­cor­dions, di­vide into more arches. cross­brace, en­twine like ca­du­cei, hold up the sky­line. for­saken, what scales the thirst for grace?

There must be some pur­pose for spires in a place of no religion. sweep through pas­sages and fret­work, tem­per­a­tures drop. dusk, in ap­noeic breaths, as­pi­rates like a punc­tured lung. read­just in cali­gari coffins, smile for no rea­son at all. oc­cupy vir­tual spa­ces, spend their nights alone. de­fies prin­ci­ples and pur­pose.

re­main un­si­lent, while the girl runs away with stick and wheel? hir­sute ob­server stands, tamp­ing down his jekyll self. searches for it­er­ant val­jeans, wants no ram­bos on his beat. keep the peace, un­der the awnings re­tail sprawls.

The crowquill scratches parch­ment, dry retch­ing, out of ink. re­com­posed in ca­sual cur­sive, stretches out in bro­ken verse.

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