I chuckle with the speed of a leather ball, exchanging divinity with lads I'll bid adieu. Our tongues roll idioms across the table as if we trace our lineage, dissecting a sunflower's remains with our sight:

     :: Moments…

     are but objects in a collection. A Sunday past I:

     : the cobblestones wash over our weary napes, & my kin botches the relic, carving his fable into elm bellies. my form: subjects me, centuries have whisked by. The city whittles a narrative from us, flagstones foretell summers we may not linger to taste. London's hum echoes when she reclines:

     : I recollect the city as

a boundary or an indentation in tea.

     : it was never really about sanctification. it was about my gravestone & etching something disparate on it.

     :: tell me how London schooled me in distance, her cherished pains, heard my flexing, ingestion. I plait the uniformity of our bloodshed, align the burdens on my walls like defenders: speak to me about the swallow of these alphabets, the departed's syntax, the departed:

     : a year past, vessels of comparisons were kept in my lower dwelling. I

     observe boys metamorphose to men 

     under the shroud of the night. I feast on melodies that age me again: my kin:

     : chants the stonework with me, too engaged to notice the bifurcated veins in

     the mortar: