Once coy wildermess we

run out off and away from

icicleness of the day we

snuggle up to auto-poisonesed

handmade dreameries, by-

products of overly improductive

citizens of the state you’re in,


and you tell me where

we are going, as if


you or anyone but none knew

where we going, striking at.


Are you sure anymore?

Then surprise me


From out of the warmth I call,

bellow, shout cries of shaking life,

you can tell it is the rum now but

anyway it is sincere, no?