Fevery, we were a feral
candle that a hand drew.
Snarl of light, omnivorous
tricks tricks us into
only me again. Loss as party
recollected. Through loss’s mesh
radiant then apeshit we went
forth like night driving itself over
a wet screen. It was a party,
it was a room. It shifted
like a crystal in the dirt.
Fondness and disgust alike
grew fingers, broke fruit
into sections; sorted rooms
by transgression. Soft some
terror herded us in puffs of air.
I rode it weakly, like a seed.
Long pink lines of emphasis
trembled over the arms and
faces of the people there.
The color pink
recalled the body—its bluffed
joys, its bracelets. Forgive us
the places where nobody partied.
Where we dressed up instead.
I said hit me and it felt like a
wrong answer gone kicking through
the god that swallowed us: king-space,
pink gate, solve for flood.