Our taste buds dry in the heat. Food is okay.
Water, soothe those clenched fists in the mourning light.
Look outside, how petals stutter and fall.
Face painted with soil at war with the garden of stillness. Butterflies with hand-shaped wings clap or pray till dawn.
When the air turns indigo, she says you have common knowledge.
Like that switch on your bedroom wall, in anticipation of (s)(n)(m)ores
