Always an addictive admix tincture scans thin to its needled needer.
Tomorrow’s half fixity needily stalks what I am half picturing. Neither
Deceiver nor too-credulous believer be.
Levered threes. I cannot leave her be.
My weed is full of seeds and frog dyed.
Fox-slight frock-tight moon talks too tidily, leans into me
Orions chews me; occludes me; tunes the tuna’d tides. Choose me.
Festooned with marks like a Pariah;
Gospel according to Mark’s Messiah.
Fawkes’ night lights fissuring suspiciously when she sighs,
Gouting out her fountain mouth of mystery. She’s Irish.
Varmints, critters, wilds. Lost histories. Hot wintertimes.
Wishes a-skitter, I hope they will hit her. Dot printers.
Alchemisland 
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