The bed is a sea. Sunken in the sheets, sweat of the mad sun. Living on the edge, of the bed, or perhaps ledge, is the maiden’s turmoil. Swish, swoosh, clatter, chatter of shamans and their ilk; is no use, for the pain, brought upon by the stars; through the hands, of the living and the dead. And yet they try, to sing and fry, the eyes that carry the sky, caught in the rising tides. Do not forget to shower, on a canicular day. That’s all I have to say.
T