adamswondergarden

You will wake one morning to steel drum carolinas, hard-hearted jezebels of longing bearing false jasmine on the back of faded lizards. They thump to worn-out calypso but your shoes are out of rhythm; no night-blooming fancy cobbles them up or slides their soles through night's transparent void. On that day, or the day after, someone will come to call on you. Your paper-doll wardrobe will crumble to coral dust in ribald cases you've set out for the mice men, though Rafael forgets his music. As you squint into sunset, recompense beyond your reach, the feral blame you've dodged will make itself a fiery ball of fury, unblissed on slipstrea