The crescendo of everyday sophistry

Preserves a pseudonym of facial temperament

Like the sea growing dark in our eyes

To the Black Sea

Like our naked bodies cutting the railways

To death
We never saw

The badges of our clothing as a mismatch

The triumph that has been given away
Now it is the moment

The moment of the hard places that we must travel

And of the fake services rendered to relax

We close our eyes in Victorian dream bars

Soot calls of foreign names echo in our memories
Like a butterfly carved down to my skin

I Hitch my dreams
Prostitutes with many names

Prescribes a monogamous medicine

Screaming “What are ya?”
Drifting into a meaningless act

I hold a magnifier onto my arms

To its design

A butterfly burned down to my skin

I scrape it free into air