the sharpest berries live in the back of the fridge

frigid sourness flavor soaked in tungsten syrup.

after dark some go home others gather walking

constricted ways I count rosaries of sun-dried

curd-chilies eating my stiff spinach hair

like a good boy my every-other-gully name

leaps off my flickering body & I crane

at every audible word possible name.

stay in touch touch stays isn't much anyways

arms around necks like flayed women peeling off their stakes.

a thud of resurrection the drum of drawing wire

from cold metal before thickly spun before completion

add sibilance to my name rousingly punctuate vowels

making me a thread content with being thread.

~Ajay
26/1/2020