Alchemisland

The brought-down mood

The ice I produce.

Due frostbite for upwarders sufficiently audacious to shoelessly climb.

Communion concludes when poundfool Sol tosses coins into the room

Tormented by a lossless memory, forbidden forgetting:

I remember your rules.

This midden century toured with you, along the landfill route

The kissed kettle, the breathed metal, the misspelled crude.

My lungs mistbreath deluded.

In the missed connections section

Asking could anyone identify an address from a nude selection.

Though her hefty chest of drawers was hardly bereft

Hoarding all manner of haughty nighttime finery

She looked finest plain, in what was cheaply bought and cheaper made.

Her true tone, her crude and coastal abalone, became subtext;

She became my subject.