Seasons of saffron,
Faucets of Holy water,
of an audience that never claps.
Beauty is never exotic,
The plague is in my closet.
My shoes are conjurers,
My eyes lakes we and your father
went fishing in.
You caught tap shoes.
He caught concurrence wriggling like a worm.
I caught the cable of an elevator
and slid down into myself.
There are no lights down here.
The sea under my hair is hungry.
I’m watching from the bottom.