Kenneth M. Cale, Matthew Kinlin 日 24/11/2023 · admin No comments


Midsummer was the clarity of its own sweetness. We were gentle and careful with each other, stumbling through violet darkness into the forest clearing. We held up a crystal flute and drank the clear fluid inside, a love-in-idleness petal balanced upon the brim. It dreamed of laziness, making love inside perfect azure, each body arched atop the other in meridians exchanged like searing crescents. The thoughts of sleeping and fucking moved through our hands and feet into quiet ground, the silent roots of alder and chestnut. England evaporated and replaced with a black box we could all look inside and see the olde phantoms, an Athens marionette dangled into a bride named B. was in love with D.