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.
