We sat rapt
Prattling on about
This and that
About a sawing campfire this hour last.
We saw as ants see only the rawest, wrongest shape of reality
Stars lying about gallantry
Her birdflight wine-imbiber’s native tone was balladry. Ballard dreams
In which we
Fused like bender returner’s fender and trafficlight refusing flesh.
Creaming wrecks. The screaming next. The pointed jest.
She gestured, to her chest.
Buried hastily my sin-jarring grimoire
Djinn apparent within her glinting amaranthine apparel
She was quarrel’s champion, a great debater, gavelled
A great sender, her wending shafts far travelled;
Her replacing quiver ever giving another arrow.
Alchemisland 
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