When a burnt sienna spray calls into question
the demonic as a matter of recognition white,
a risen pyramid hirsute frames a sweet vise in
a mind that simple waits a yardbird screaming
mean blues harp matters when she she she goes
goes goes apeshit 'cause her red shirt blinds you're
already blind and recognition is a small compense.
She stared she scared in Pythagorean angles square
and solids were, well, another golden matter then.
Wrinkles for sure but also endless love unending.