Slapdashed to rear windows like fat rats
belching in gutter spaces and
backwater animosities searching for
spellbound rooms, to call my own my own,
and revel in the caustic sense
of fine rebuttals that are but vicious
and native to your insular worlds,
pink to crimson daffodils
as the summer suns go naked and blue,
haywire at the nuances of the lazy, fey
writhing eventides that we were holding
our spasms together to go on merrily,
bursting upon the seas and
the seven heavens of crystal sorrows
ruptured nightfalls
and hazy, sloth
collapsing memories