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.
Clouds with their rainbow tongues lick relief over our skin, butterflies flap ceramic clean in high circles. Time hauls open the iron doors of held breath — jaws loosen with the stretch.