I see paper notes shower from the outpour above,
they read twisted riddles interlocked with aged stakes,
and sting any flesh who dares the 6:00 pm to love,
instead of the whistles at 12:00 am arising from twilight lakes.
I hear bottled voices call their forgotten,
like spreading out a vacant map of very lost heart beats,
and long faded foot prints who choked on too much pollen,
manufactured abroad sunflowers dug beneath dying streets.
And now and ever since back— I feel flames burn the remaining cell,
of the dangerous, dusted notes that used to hang in an opaque wall,
carved to a single bucket of a single well,
hiding every arid picture that once stretched so tall.