So -

the spitfire creased up in my shirt

is lucid after all,

but  it is such a fevered jade; stripping lambs of their jewellery

leaving me circumsized in the mirage.

Pain is a heroin, an orgasm to mourn

and I find it everywhere: veins robust with violins, winds sharp like romance,

and words that

drip like prayers,

but most of all

in that

community flooding your eye sorely,

watching me fight the sedimentary

and rake my dairy

for suspended animation -

                                  Here is my Romeo.