A totalitarian state sculpted from butter.
A thin slice of marriage dissolved on my tongue.
The hypothesis that tectonic plates are archangels.
Thistles when they tell a lie.
A family of similes beneath a hedgerow.
That you can grind mercy even finer.
Nothing unless it can be ironed.
The sea floor outside of my amygdala.
Allowing poetry past the mile marker where it happened.
I wake up