Our words are feathered arrows, wrapped in afternoon shadows. You loom like a northern pine, queen of pale, dry wine. Show me again your scarred arms, the emblems of a hundred harms. You choose a green mystery, your eyes can't help but reveal. One scarred ankle trembling, your voice of light circling. Tangled in your slender stems one late afternoon. Two lives incommensurate. Meditation, violence. Tangled in your slender stems healing over wounds. Melting away, dissolving bones, flowers consuming stones. Your marks etched into my hand...I don't want to be a better man.
Don't come near, don't go too far, for the streets are paved with stars. So take your aim and let fly. You'll hit the mark if you try. Two lives incommensurate. Meditation, violence. Tangled in your slender stems healing over wounds.

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