When I feel your mood on me, indigo,
I sip the wound
Slowly
Through my yellow eyes.
I cannot begin to imagine
Your strange faults
And grooves.
Raw bats swoop through
The dusty hollow of your
Mind and mine.
Slapping words making
Faint music.
“Sick and tired, ma’am?”
[“WRONG,” screaming
Screeching
Agentless.]
Sour notes, rarely tasteful.
Shores of sharp
Sand weaving into
Our fearing parts.
I do not care.
I do not care.
I do not care.
