Potted plant,
Bedside fauna,
A wailing wall
Of shadows taller than the norm.
I wish I could turn it off,
What's wrong is only wrong until it's not
Taut, cold skin,
The morning after,
At best I'm reticent
Looks like we're already undressed
Hey, what's wrong?
I didn't intend to undermine,
The clouds I wrapped about your shoulders over time
Here we stand,
In hanging gardens,
Oh how it's all become, some sort of mythic illustration.
A hymnal voice ought to be lilting through,
My cranial suburb and neighbourhood.
We're just Murmurations
