It was like finding a ladybird in a cave; red dome waterfall, black gothic lace, we traced flashlight shadows fashioned into stone, spread ruby beetle tulle around our legs.
The wagtail ascends invisible stairs trees knuckle into airy sea foam the moon-ghost has come to collect the sweat-tear frustrations grown by the Sun — we are running into the streets.
The bull stands steampunk out of a Blake metaphor — ribcage drip chain, rose-gold-brown bolt roaring purple. Moulded into muscle, metal becomes smoke-born — we search for an aluminum pulse under hubs, scorched shoulder blades.