Dway-berry dribble like muscle blood, fun because of poison. Bent. Loose habitual slide of tongue between orbs. Thalam, under arching boughs. Thicket. The guitar, though convincing, does not speak loosely. In the creviced instant, I am covered in saffron. You are pressing me into strands because of autumn, because of hibernation. If I told you I am there, you would be a shoreline, spreading infinitely away from me. A useless tide. For now. Burrow. Scurry. Clam foot, your anchoring fear. Thunder, a trembling nerve beats a chamade to lure you here. Parleyvoo. My trembling tune. Sleeping wisp of foam drags sand. I cannot help my lips. They become an envelope, arriving nowhere.