The chest compresses as the air titters

A thousands sparks as two fingers were snapped
The wind hangs low for the highest bidders
A snapshot of natives, now nude and mapped:
Fistfulls of water, the deep green fountain
Classic juice on the floor, so unopened
Creeping crepitations – necks knived in sin
A stream of humid thoughts tripped the bookend:
Reckless rails, like jazz mainstreamed and quartered
I am only a hand that sees it all
Measured breaths on couches is time ordered
The cycle is sick; the sickle grew tall:
Unhanded possessions, esteem intact
The music seeps through the carpeted track.
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