sprouted wings of pearl carved by coal

and eyelashes saturated

with apocalypse,  turn away, run away...

...back down the bellies of evergreens

and sleeping,

the face can be beatific in Freud

eggs

almost pregnANTS

in the jeans

that fingers hate with seams.

i want some sugar in my bowl,

and though i like the tapping,

we get no where

and your face looks

alot like mine

in the back of my spoon.