whisperings never stop
but neither do fizzbangs

of colour & unknown
shapes pulsing endlessly

in ventricles, guts, eyeballs
dangling loosely in sockets

like overripe crab apples
reaching lazily for soft

landings—yet even shut
tight from the flickering

dazzle of pooled dreams
captured in gently curved

sand, whispers ride slow
ringing whistles that sharpen,

prying lids open like a t-boned
truck stuffed with ice cream by

peach-fuzzed rats clutching
shards of glinting glass.