Torrid
Cockroach believes he has
power. Always giving hate.
Weak, impotent yelling. He
only sees a gulag. His camera
blotted black. You are a multihued
ritual. Inventing. You’re the result
and I’m awestruck. We ride elated,
our hearts inflate, float up the y-axis.
Blank launch, now Eagle Nebula.
Our polychrome romance.