Every jar holds a cloud & a razor while you are still learning to love. Though theories of beauty intersect by night there is no plan according to which the roof goes on. Thus it is they say throw down your language & yelp. The bus burns by the roadside. The theory is that experiences be repeatable until the experiencing subject is mute history. In the nights that possibly follow we’ll have pierced blue eyes & your jacket be fringed with magpie snot.
When they turn the jars upside down then we truly begin to fear music. The days are piccolos we lose on the runway as dogs yelp at our thighs. Names are injections & the rawness of headgear confirms our annihilation. A gentle breeze combs out the lake & its horizon darkens like the blush of an apricot on a bruised hand. The burning bus represents Nature in this time of Universal Peace. You strip out of your jacket & chase magpies from the subway.
Their bodies were a crust as apricots rotted in the supermarket. The days between the hours of day & night were most perilous your teeth small & echoing. I’d often hit myself with hammers to see if the cartoons were true which they were (happiness).