Watching a fire start by the heinous eyes of Ingrid Bergman/husband, husband she cries, it's the creases in a manly shirt that ants enjoy most/sinking in, hole by hole/leaving skinless antennas we used to communicate our most drugged fantasies/Ingrid! His eyes were never full enough to capture the cusp of your lingering side bone/ the crawl of your lips is too much in hour-less whisper/his eyes will only hear a broken key played on such violent piano/violet before the magenta of every flower fades/doomed to know/whales mate with whales in season of standard archery, it makes them feel murder is a 9pm curfew/curfew or neon fantasy?/it's the same as we fall in a cradle of torched petals gathered in a form of the crispest leaf/fall, no longer the ripening of the stomach/ fires that started/ that burns most without a hint of digestible berries/he feeds you, flowerless/Ingrid, please see the threats that come undone, are well taped to your anonymous finger/on par/every hand/he will feed you, not the remainder of your flower-hat but the pearls that hiss like striped worms, giggling in fits/between your wilted gums.