Human architecture built the lullaby where waves were never more than water. Roses suffer on the navy docks with no goodbyes to barter, and there’s a rabbit’s chance beneath a falling hammock my empty hands will still squeeze empty bonnets in sunsets without the shape of land. The profile of wish requires pawns in the backlots of ferns and resurrections, and as a self-declared cloud in the height machine I acknowledge the prosaic downfall of blooms in shade among the populations of buried lambs and memorial spades. I’m here with my one torso tunic, the sixth degree of separation from the boy who suffocated in grain, sincerely wanting to touch the music box ballerina, to chip her porcelain skirt and oil the tonal pin that is her direction, and tell her politely I hope she suffers a career ending splinter while leaning over a banister for foreign melons and a dollar dish, to suffer dainty harms like a cinnamon soul wandering apothecaries of neutral taste, and share our mouths above and below counterfeit vines. But there isn’t any room for legitimate social mixers on a fractured Pangea suffering a perpetual identity crisis, and it tears me to pieces to know that as a carnival crowd tying ribbons to hedgerows, and dedicating bell towers to men who’ve never really sang or even swam out to their mother to save her from aquatic weeds, we will never successfully give a butterfly a full twist without involuntarily challenging the integrity of our god governed color wheel, which promises to finally answer the question of why all my blues turn to maroons in the aftertaste of bliss, and why I’m only considered pretty holding a balloon bouquet in the baby breath meadow with my hair down. The empty heart will always be redistributed as a soft jackpot of thrown brooches in grassland patterns of gowns escaping.