We crush into the sky's mirror dancing
our lives of thirsty butterflies
on a colour

I would get you changed
in these moments suited for betrayal
but first I would beat with my fists into
the other straying, throwing
the sand of return
in the eyes anyway shut I would beat
into that old thing crumbled between
parables and arms that cannot
continue their passing when
the buds on the twig are shouting
withdrawing into the troubled sap
as if a new burgeoning.